" mused Lady Verner, as they entered
the presence of Decima, who started up to receive them.

CHAPTER LXXXVI.

WAS IT A SPECTRE?

When they returned to the rooms, Sir Edmund with Decima, Lady Verner by
her daughter's side, the first object that met their view was Jan. Jan
at a ball! Lady Verner lifted her eyebrows; she had never believed that
Jan would really show himself where he must be so entirely out of place.
But there Jan was; in decent dress, too--black clothes, and a white
neckcloth and gloves. It's true the bow of his neckcloth was tied upside
down, and the gloves had their thumbs nearly out. Jan's great hands laid
hold of both Sir Edmund's.

"I'm uncommon glad you are back!" cried he--which was his polite phrase
for expressing satisfaction.

"So am I, Jan," heartily answered Sir Edmund. "I have never had a real
friend, Jan, since I left you."

"We can be friends still," said plain Jan.

"Ay," said Sir Edmund meaningly, "and brothers." But the last word was
spoken in Jan's ear alone, for they were in a crowd now.

"To see you here very much surprises me, Jan," remarked Lady Verner,
asperity in her tone. "I hope you will contrive to behave properly."

Lady Mary Elmsley, then standing with them, laughed. "What are you
afraid he should do, Lady Verner?"

"He was not made for society," said Lady Verner, with asperity.

"Nor society for me," returned Jan good-humouredly. "I'd rather be
watching a case of fever."

"Oh, Jan!" cried Lady Mary, laughing still.

"So I would," repeated Jan. "At somebody's bedside, in my easy coat, I
feel at home. And I feel that I am doing good; that's more. _This_ is
nothing but waste of time."

"You hear?" appealed Lady Verner to them, as if Jan's avowal were a
passing proof of her assertion--that he and society were antagonistic to
each other, "_I_ wonder you took the thought to attire yourself
passably," she added, her face retaining its strong vexation. "Had
anybody asked me, I should have given it as my opinion, that you had not
things fit to appear in."

"I had got these," returned Jan, looking down at his clothes. "Won't
they do? It's my funeral suit."

The unconscious, matter-of-fact style of Jan's avowal was beyond
everything. Lady Verner was struck dumb, Sir Edmund smiled, and Mary
Elmsley laughed outright.

"Oh, Jan!" said she, "you'll be a child all your days. What do you mean
by your 'funeral suit'?"

"Anybody might know that," was Jan's answe