“My clothes?” he replied, bewildered a moment; but the next he understood and grinned. “I haven't got any. My valet--think of T. T. with a valet!--told me so last night.” “That's what I thought,” she said maternally. “I got Mrs. Bowse to write to me, and she told me you were so hurried and excited you hadn't time for anything.” “I just rushed into Cohen's the last day and yanked a few things off the ready-made counter.” She looked him over with impersonal criticism. “I thought so. Those you've got on won't do at all.” Tembarom glanced at them. “That's what Pearson says.” “They're not the right shape,” she explained. “I know what a gentleman's clothes mean in England, and--” her face flushed, and sudden, warm spirit made her speak rather fast--“I couldn't ABIDE to think of you coming here and--being made fun of--just because you hadn't the right clothes.” She said it, the little thing, as though he were hers--her very own, and defend him against disrespect she WOULD. Tembarom, being but young flesh and blood, made an impetuous dart toward her, and checked himself, catching his breath. “Ann,” he said, “has your grandmother got a dog?” “Y-e-s,” she said, faltering because she was puzzled. “How big is he?” “He's a big one. He's a brindled bulldog. Why?” “Well,” he said, half pathetic, half defiant, “if you're going to come and talk to me like that, and look like that, you've got to bring that bull along and set him on me when I make a break; for there's nothing but a dog can keep me where you want me to stay--and a big one at that.” He sat down on an ottoman near her and dropped his head on his hands. It was not half such a joke as it sounded. Little Ann saw it wasn't and she watched him tenderly, catching her breath once quickly. Men had ways of taking some things hard and feeling them a good bit more than one would think. It made trouble many a time if one couldn't help them to think reasonable. “Father,” she said to Hutchinson. “Aye,” he answered, turning round. “Will you tell Mr. Temple Barholm that you think I'm right about giving him his chance?” “Of course I think she's right,” Hutchinson blustered, “and it isn't the first time either. I'm not going to have my lass married into any family where she'd be looked down upon.” But that was not what Little Ann wanted; it was not, in fact, her argument. She was not thinking of that side of the situation. “It's not me that matters so much, Father,” she said; “it's him.” “Oh, is it?” disagreed Hutchinson, dictatorially. “That's not th' road I look at it. I'm looking after you, not him. Let him take care of himself. No chap shall put you where you won't be looked up to, even if I AM grateful to him. So there you have it.” “He can't take care of himself when he feels like this,” she answered. “That's WHY I'm taking care of him. He'll think steadier when he's himself again.” She put out her hand and softly touched his shoulder.