“Temple Barholm!” he almost shouted, “I dunnot believe thee! Why, it's one of th' oldest places in England and one of th' biggest. Th' Temple Barholms as didn't come over with th' Conqueror was there before him. Some of them was Saxon kings! And him—” pointing a stumpy, red finger disparagingly at Tembarom, aghast and incredulous—“that New York lad that's sold newspapers in the streets—you say he's come into it?”
“Precisely.” Mr. Palford spoke with some crispness of diction. Noise and bluster annoyed him. “That is my business here. Mr. Tembarom is, in fact, Mr. Temple Temple Barholm of Temple Barholm, which you seem to have heard of.”
“Heard of it! My mother was born in the village an' lives there yet. Art tha struck dumb, lad!” he said almost fiercely to Tembarom. “By Judd! Tha well may be!”
Tembarom was standing holding the back of a chair. He was pale, and had once opened his mouth, and then gulped and shut it. Little Ann had dropped her sewing. His first look had leaped to her, and she had looked back straight into his eyes.
“I'm struck something,” he said, his half-laugh slightly unsteady. “Who'd blame me?”
“You'd better sit down,” said Little Ann. “Sudden things are upsetting.”
He did sit down. He felt rather shaky. He touched himself on his chest and laughed again.
“Me!” he said. “T. T.! Hully gee! It's like a turn at a vaudeville.”
The sentiment prevailing in Hutchinson's mind seemed to verge on indignation.
“Thee th' master of Temple Barholm!” he ejaculated. “Why, it stood for seventy thousand pound' a year!”