“I beg pardon, Miss. I beg your Grace's pardon for intruding, but—”
Miss Alicia moved toward him in such a manner that he himself seemed to feel that he might advance.
“What is it, Pearson? Have you anything special to say?”
“I hope I am not taking too great a liberty, Miss, but I did come in for a purpose, knowing that his Grace was with you and thinking you might both kindly advise me. It is about Mr. Temple Barholm, your Grace—” addressing him as if in involuntary recognition of the fact that he might possibly prove the greater support.
“Our Mr. Temple Barholm, Pearson? We are being told there are two of them.” The duke's delicate emphasis on the possessive pronoun was delightful, and it so moved and encouraged sensitive little Pearson that he was emboldened to answer with modest firmness:
“Yes,—ours. Thank you, your Grace.”
“You feel him yours too, Pearson?” a shade more delightfully still.
“I—I take the liberty, your Grace, of being deeply attached to him, and more than grateful.”
“What did you want to ask advice about?”
“The family solicitors. Captain Palliser and Lady Joan Fayre and Mr. and Miss Hutchinson are to be here shortly, and I have been told I am to be questioned. What I want to know, your Grace, is—” He paused, and looked no longer pale but painfully red as he gathered himself together for his anxious outburst—“Must I speak the truth?”