"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 answer to Lady Mary. "It's the suit I keep for funerals. A doctor is always being asked to attend them; and if he does not go he offends the people."
"You might have kept the information to yourself," rebuked Lady Verner.
"It doesn't matter, does it?" asked Jan. "Aren't they good enough to come in?"
He turned his head round, to get a glance at the said suit behind. Sir Edmund laid his hand affectionately on his shoulder. Young as Jan had been before Edmund Hautley went out, they had lived close friends.
"The clothes are all right, Jan. And if you had come without a coat at all, you would have been equally welcome to me."