"Mince small," she whispered, confidentially, as she passed Magdalen.
"That's a teaser, isn't it?"
"Down at heel again!" shouted the captain, pointing to his wife's heavy
flat feet as they shuffled across the room. "The right shoe. Pull it up
at heel, Mrs. Wragge--pull it up at heel! Pray allow me," he continued,
offering his arm to Magdalen, and escorting her to a dirty little
horse-hair sofa. "You want repose--after your long journey, you really
want repose." He drew his chair to the sofa, and surveyed her with a
bland look of investigation--as if he had been her medical attendant,
with a diagnosis on his mind.
"Very pleasant! very pleasant!" said the captain, when he had seen his
guest comfortable on the sofa. "I feel quite in the bosom of my family.
Shall we return to our subject--the subject of my rascally self? No!
no! No apologies, no protestations, pray. Don't mince the matter on your
side--and depend on me not to mince it on mine. Now come to facts;
pray come to facts. Who, and what am I? Carry your mind back to our
conversation on the Walls of this interesting City, and let us start
once more from your point of view. I am a Rogue; and, in that capacity
(as I have already pointed out), the most useful man you possibly could
have met with.
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