"And then turn the frying-pan over," repeated Mrs. Wragge, with a sudden
burst of energy. "I've got it now! Oh, the lots of omelettes all frying
together in my head; and all frying wrong! Much obliged, I'm sure.
You've put me all right again: I'm only a little tired with talking.
And then turn the frying-pan, then turn the frying-pan, then turn the
frying-pan over. It sounds like poetry, don't it?"
Her voice sank, and she drowsily closed her eyes. At the same moment the
door of the room below opened, and the captain's mellifluous bass notes
floated upstairs, charged with the customary stimulant to his wife's
faculties.
"Mrs. Wragge!" cried the captain. "Mrs. Wragge!"
She started to her feet at that terrible summons. "Oh, what did he tell
me to do?" she asked, distractedly. "Lots of things, and I've forgotten
them all!"
"Say you have done them when he asks you," suggested Magdalen. "They
were things for me--things I don't want. I remember all that is
necessary. My room is the front room on the third floor. Go downstairs
and say I am coming directly."
She took up the candle and pushed Mrs. Wragge out on the landing. "Say
I am coming directly," she whispered again--and went upstairs by herself
to the third story.
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