dusty, and we have enjoyed ourselves much,"
replied Lionel. He answered in the plural, you observe; my lady had put
the question in the singular. Where is Decima?"

"Decima is sure to be at some work or other for Jan," was the answer,
the asperity of Lady Verner's tone not decreasing. "He turns the house
nearly upside down with his wants. Now a pan of broth must be made for
some wretched old creature; now a jug of beef tea; now a bran poultice
must be got; now some linen cut up for bandages. Jan's excuse is that he
can't get anything done at Dr. West's. If he is doctor to the parish, he
need not be purveyor; but you may just as well speak to a post as speak
to Jan. What do you suppose he did the other day? Those improvident
Kellys had their one roomful of things taken from them by their
landlord. Jan went there--the woman's ill with a bad breast, or
something--and found her lying on the bare boards; nothing to cover her,
not a saucepan left to boil a drop of water. Off he comes here at the
pace of a steam engine, got an old blanket and pillow from Catherine,
and a tea-kettle from the kitchen. Now, Lionel, would you believe what I
am going to tell you? No! No one would. He made the pillow and blanket
into a bundle, and walked off with it under his arm; the kettle--never
so much as a piece of paper wrapped round it--in his other hand! I felt
ready to faint with shame when I saw him crossing the road opposite,
that spectacle, to get to Clay Lane, the kettle held out a yard before
him to keep the black off his clothes. He never could have been meant to
be your brother and my son!"

Lucy laughed at the recollection. She had had the pleasure of beholding
the spectacle. Lionel laughed now at the description. Their mirth did
not please Lady Verner. She was serious in her complaint.

"Lionel, you would not have liked it yourself. Fancy his turning out of
Verner's Pride in that guise, and encountering visitors! I don't know
how it is, but there's some deficiency in Jan; something wanting. You
know he generally chooses to come here by the back door: this day,
because he had got the black kettle in his hand like a travelling
tinker, he must go out by the front. He did! It saved him a few steps,
and he went out without a blush. Out of my house, Lionel! Nobody ever
lived, I am certain, who possessed so little innate notion of the
decencies of life as Jan. Had he met a carriage full of visitors in the
courtyard, he would have swung