"
"Your books?" said Magdalen. "What books do you mean?"
"You shall see," replied the captain. "Trust me, or not, as you like--I
trust _you_ implicitly. You shall see."
With those words he retired into the back room. While he was gone,
Magdalen stole another look at Mrs. Wragge. Was she still self-isolated
from her husband's deluge of words? Perfectly self-isolated. She had
advanced the imaginary omelette to the last stage of culinary progress;
and she was now rehearsing the final operation of turning it over--with
the palm of her hand to represent the dish, and the cookery-book to
impersonate the frying-pan. "I've got it," said Mrs. Wragge, nodding
across the room at Magdalen. "First put the frying-pan on the dish, and
then tumble both of them over."
Captain Wragge returned, carrying a neat black dispatch-box, adorned
with a bright brass lock. He produced from the box five or six plump
little books, bound in commercial calf and vellum, and each fitted
comfortably with its own little lock.
"Mind!" said the moral agriculturist, "I take no credit to myself for
this: it is my nature to be orderly, and orderly I am. I must have
everything down in black and white, or I should go mad! Here is my
commercial library: Daybook, Ledger, Book of Districts, Book of Letters,
Book of Remarks, and so on.
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