“It's not my sort,” was the answer. “I'm going to give notice to old Butterworth.” Hutchinson and Little Ann were waiting in the hall. Hutchinson was looking at the rich, shadowy spaces about him with a sort of proud satisfaction. Fine, dark corners with armored figures lurking in them, ancient portraits, carved oak settles, and massive chairs and cabinets--these were English, and he was an Englishman, and somehow felt them the outcome of certain sterling qualities of his own. He looked robustly well, and wore a new rough tweed suit such as one of the gentry might tramp about muddy roads and fields in. Little Ann was dressed in something warm and rough also, a brown thing, with a little close, cap-like, brown hat, from under which her red hair glowed. The walk in the cold, white fog had made her bloom fresh, soft-red and white-daisy color. She was smiling, and showing three distinct dimples, which deepened when Tembarom dashed out of the library. “Hully gee!” he cried out, “but I'm glad to see you!” He shook hands with both of them furiously, and two footmen stood and looked at the group with image-like calm of feature, but with curiously interested eyes. Hutchinson was aware of them, and endeavored to present to them a back which by its stolid composure should reveal that he knew more about such things than this chap did and wasn't a bit upset by grandeur. “Hully gee!” cried Tembarom again, “how glad I am! Come on in and sit down and let's talk it over.” Burrill made a stately step forward, properly intent on his duty, and his master waved him back. “Say,” he said hastily, “don't bring in any tea. They don't want it. They're Americans.” Hutchinson snorted. He could not stand being consigned to ignominy before the footmen. “Nowt o' th' sort,” he broke forth. “We're noan American. Tha'rt losing tha head, lad.” “He's forgetting because he met us first in New York,” said Little Ann, smiling still more. “Shall I take your hat and cane, sir?” inquired Burrill, unmovedly, at Hutchinson's side. “He wasn't going to say anything about tea,” explained Little Ann as they went into the library. “They don't expect to serve tea in the middle of the morning, Mr. Temple Barholm.” “Don't they?” said Tembarom, reckless with relieved delight. “I thought they served it every time the clock struck. When we were in London it seemed like Palford had it when he was hot and when he was cold and when he was glad and when he was sorry and when he was going out and when he was coming in. It's brought up to me, by jinks! as soon as I wake, to brace me up to put on my clothes--and Pearson wants to put those on.” He stopped short when they reached the middle of the room and looked her over. “O Little Ann!” he breathed tumultuously. “O Little Ann!” Mr. Hutchinson was looking about the library as he had looked about the hall. “Well, I never thought I'd get inside Temple Barlholm in my day,” he exclaimed. “Eh, lad, tha must feel like bull in a china shop.”