“You're going away yourself next Wednesday. And you ARE Mr. Temple Barholm. You'll never be called anything else in England.
“How am I going to stand it?” he protested again. “How could a fellow like me stand it! To be yanked out of good old New York, and set down in a place like a museum, with Central Park round it, and called Mr. Temple Temple Barholm instead of just 'Tem' or 'T. T.'! It's not natural.”
“What you must do, Mr. Temple Barholm, is to keep your head clear, that's all,” she replied maturely.
“Lord! if I'd got a head like yours!”
She seemed to take him in, with a benign appreciativeness, in his entirety.
“Well, you haven't,” she admitted, though quite without disparagement, merely with slight reservation. “But you've got one like your own. And it's a good head—when you try to think steady. Yours is a man's head, and mine's only a woman's.”
“It's Little Ann Hutchinson's, by gee!” said Tembarom, with feeling.
“Listen here, Mr. Tem—Temple Barholm,” she went on, as nearly disturbed as he had ever seen her outwardly. “It's a wonderful thing that's happened to you. It's like a novel. That splendid place, that splendid name! It seems so queer to think I should ever have talked to a Mr. Temple Barholm as I've talked to you.”
He leaned forward a little as though something drew him.
“But”—there was unsteady appeal in his voice—“you have liked me, haven't you, Little Ann?”