“Oh, yes, you would,” protested Tembarom, cheerfully. “You'd have said I talked through my nose, and I should have laughed at you for dropping your h's. Now you're rattled because I'm Mr. Temple Temple Barholm; but you're not half as rattled as I am.” “You'll get over it, sir, almost immediately,” Pearson assured him, hopefully. “Of course I shall,” said Tembarom, with much courage. “But to start right I've got to get over YOU.” “Me, sir?” Pearson breathed anxiously. “Yes. That's what I want to get off my chest. Now, first off, you came in here to try to explain to me that, owing to my New York valet having left my New York wardrobe behind, I've not got anything to wear, and so I shall have to buy some clothes.” “I failed to find any dress-shirts, sir,” began Pearson, hesitatingly. Mr. Temple Barholm grinned. “I always failed to find them myself. I never had a dress-shirt. I never owned a suit of glad rags in my life.” “Gl--glad rags, sir?” stammered Pearson, uncertainly. “I knew you didn't catch on when I said that to you before dinner. I mean claw-hammer and dress-suit things. Don't you be frightened, Pearson. I never had six good shirts at once, or two pair of shoes, or more than four ten-cent handkerchiefs at a time since I was born. And when Mr. Palford yanked me away from New York, he didn't suspect a fellow could be in such a state. And I didn't know I was in a state, anyhow. I was too busy to hunt up people to tell me, because I was rushing something important right through, and I couldn't stop. I just bought the first things I set eyes on and crammed them into my trunk. There, I guess you know the most of this, but you didn't know I knew you knew it. Now you do, and you needn't be afraid to hurt my feelings by telling me I haven't a darned thing I ought to have. You can go straight ahead.” As he leaned back, puffing away at his pipe, he had thrown a leg over the arm of his chair for greater comfort, and it really struck his valet that he had never seen a gentleman more at his ease, even one who WAS one. His casual candidness produced such a relief from the sense of strain and uncertainty that Pearson felt the color returning to his face. An opening had been given him, and it was possible for him to do his duty. “If you wish, sir, I will make a list,” he ventured further, “and the proper firms will send persons to bring things down from London on appro.” “What's 'appro' the English for?” “Approval, sir.” “Good business! Good old Pearson!” “Thank you, sir. Shall I attend to it to-night, to be ready for the morning post?” “In five minutes you shall. But you threw me off the track a bit. The thing I was really going to say was more important than the clothes business.” There was something else, then, thought Pearson, some other unexpected point of view. “What have you to do for me, anyhow?” “Valet you, sir.” “That's English for washing my face and combing my hair and putting my socks on, ain't it?”