T. Tembarom. Frances Hodgson Burnett

this moment that Mrs. Bowse came into the room.

      “It's too bad it's happened just now,” she said, much flustered. “That's the way with things. The stew'll spoil, but he says it's real important.”

      Tembarom caught at both her hands and shook them.

      “I've got it, Mrs. Bowse. Here's your society reporter! The best-looking boarder you've got is going to be able to pay his board steady.”

      “I'm as glad as can be, and so will everybody be. I knew you'd get it. But this gentleman's been here twice to-day. He says he really must see you.”

      “Let him wait,” Hutchinson ordered. “What's the chap want? The stew won't be fit to eat.”

      “No, it won't,” answered Mrs. Bowse; “but he seems to think he's not the kind to be put off. He says it's more Mr. Tembarom's business than his. He looked real mad when I showed him into the parlor, where they were playing the pianola. He asked wasn't there a private room where you could talk.”

      A certain flurried interest in the manner of Mrs. Bowse, a something not usually awakened by inopportune callers, an actual suggestion of the possible fact that she was not as indifferent as she was nervous, somewhat awakened Mr. Hutchinson's curiosity.

      “Look here,” he volunteered, “if he's got any real business, he can't talk over to the tune of the pianola you can bring him up here, Tembarom. I'll see he don't stay long if his business isn't worth talkin' about. He'll see the table set for supper, and that'll hurry him.”

      “Oh, gee I wish he hadn't come!” said Tembarom. “I'll just go down and see what he wants. No one's got any swell private business with me.”

      “You bring him up if he has,” said Hutchinson. “We'd like to hear about it.”

      Tembarom ran down the stairs quickly.

      No one had ever wanted to see him on business before. There was something important-sounding about it; perhaps things were starting up for him in real earnest. It might be a message from Galton, though he could not believe that he had at this early stage reached such a distinction. A ghastly thought shot a bolt at him, but he shook himself free of it.

      “He's not a fellow to go back on his word, anyhow,” he insisted.

      There were more boarders than usual in the parlor. The young woman from the notion counter had company; and one of her guests was playing “He sut'nly was Good to Me” on the pianola with loud and steady tread of pedal.

      The new arrival had evidently not thought it worth his while to commit himself to permanency by taking a seat. He was standing not far from the door with a businesslike-looking envelop in one hand and a pince-nez in the other, with which Tembarom saw he was rather fretfully tapping the envelop as he looked about him. He was plainly taking in the characteristics of the room, and was not leniently disposed toward them. His tailor was clearly an excellent one, with entirely correct ideas as to the cut and material which exactly befitted an elderly gentleman of some impressiveness in the position, whatsoever it happened to be, which he held. His face was not of a friendly type, and his eyes held cold irritation discreetly restrained by businesslike civility. Tembarom vaguely felt the genialities of the oyster supper assume a rather fourth-rate air.

      The caller advanced and spoke first.

      “Mr. Tembarom?” he inquired.

      “Yes,” Tembarom answered, “I'm T. Tembarom.”

      “T.,” repeated the stranger, with a slightly puzzled expression. “Ah, yes; I see. I beg pardon.”

      In that moment Tembarom felt that he was looked over, taken in, summed up, and without favor. The sharp, steady eye, however, did not seem to have moved from his face. At the same time it had aided him to realize that he was, to this well-dressed person at least, a too exhilarated young man wearing a ten-dollar “hand-me-down.”

      “My name is Palford,” he said concisely. “That will convey nothing to you. I am of the firm of Palford & Grimby of Lincoln's Inn. This is my card.”

      Tembarom took the card and read that Palford & Grimby were “solicitors,” and he was not sure that he knew exactly what “solicitors” were.

      “Lincoln's Inn?” he hesitated. “That's not in New York, is it?”

      “No, Mr. Tembarom; in London. I come from England.”

      “You must have had bad weather crossing,” said Tembarom, with amiable intent. Somehow Mr. Palford presented a more unyielding surface than he was accustomed to. And yet his hard courtesy was quite perfect.

      “I have been here some weeks.”

      “I hope you like New York. Won't you have a seat?”

      The young lady from the notion counter and her friends began to sing the chorus of “He sut'nly was Good to Me” with quite professional negro accent.

      “That's just the way May Irwin done it,” one of them laughed.

      Mr. Palford glanced at the performers. He did not say whether he liked New York or not.

      “I asked your landlady if we could not see each other in a private room,” he said. “It would not be possible to talk quietly here.”

      “We shouldn't have much of a show,” answered Tembarom, inwardly wishing he knew what was going to happen. “But there are no private rooms in the house. We can be quieter than this, though, if we go up stairs to Mr. Hutchinson's room. He said I could bring you.”

      “That would be much better,” replied Mr. Palford.

      Tembarom led him out of the room, up the first steep and narrow flight of stairs, along the narrow hall to the second, up that, down another hall to the third, up the third, and on to the fourth. As he led the way he realized again that the worn carpets, the steep narrowness, and the pieces of paper unfortunately stripped off the wall at intervals, were being rather counted against him. This man had probably never been in a place like this before in his life, and he didn't take to it.

      At the Hutchinsons' door he stopped and explained:

      “We were going to have an oyster stew here because the Hutchinsons are going away; but Mr. Hutchinson said we could come up.”

      “Very kind of Mr. Hutchinson, I'm sure.”

      Despite his stiffly collected bearing, Mr. Palford looked perhaps slightly nervous when he was handed into the bed-sitting-room, and found himself confronting Hutchinson and Little Ann and the table set for the oyster stew. It is true that he had never been in such a place in his life, that for many reasons he was appalled, and that he was beset by a fear that he might be grotesquely compelled by existing circumstances to accept these people's invitation, if they insisted upon his sitting down with them and sharing their oyster stew. One could not calculate on what would happen among these unknown quantities. It might be their idea of boarding-house politeness. And how could one offend them? God forbid that the situation should intensify itself in such an absurdly trying manner! What a bounder the unfortunate young man was! His own experience had not been such as to assist him to any realistic enlightenment regarding him, even when he had seen the society page and had learned that he had charge of it.

      “Let me make you acquainted with Mr. and Miss Hutchinson,” Tembarom introduced. “This is Mr. Palford, Mr. Hutchinson.”

      Hutchinson, half hidden behind his newspaper, jerked his head and grunted:

      “Glad to see you, sir.”

      Mr. Palford bowed, and took the chair Tembarom presented.

      “I am much obliged to you, Mr. Hutchinson, for allowing me to come to your room. I have business to discuss with Mr. Tembarom, and the pianola was being played down-stairs—rather loudly.”

      “They do it every night, dang 'em! Right under my bed,” growled Hutchinson. “You're an Englishman,