"Sir Henry Tempest?" involuntarily spoke Jan, before the official addressed had time to answer the question. "I heard that my mother was expecting you."
Sir Henry Tempest ran his eyes over Jan's face and figure: an honest face, but an ungainly figure; loose clothes that would have been all the better for a brush, and the edges of his high shirt-collar jagged out.
"Mr. Verner?" responded Sir Henry doubtingly.
"Not Mr. Verner. I'm only Jan. You must have forgotten me long ago, Sir Henry."
Sir Henry Tempest held out his hand, "I have not forgotten what you were as a boy; but I should not have known you as a man. And yet—it is the same face."
"Of course it is," said Jan, "Ugly faces, such as mine, don't alter. I will walk with you to my mother's: it is close by. Have you any luggage?"
"Only a portmanteau. My servant is looking after it. Here he is."
A very dark man came up—an Indian—nearly as old as his master. Jan recognised him.
"I remember you!" he exclaimed "It is Batsha."
The man laughed, hiding his dark eyes, but showing his white teeth. "Massa Jan!" he said, "used to call me Bat."