It isn't nice. We
had some accidents with it. It's been under the grate. It's been spilled
on the stairs. It's scalded the landlady's youngest boy--he went and sat
on it. Bless you, it isn't half as nice as it looks! Don't you ask for
any. Perhaps he won't notice if you say nothing about it. What do you
think of my wrapper? I should so like to have a white one. Have you got
a white one? How is it trimmed? Do tell me!"
The formidable entrance of the captain suspended the next question on
her lips. Fortunately for Mrs. Wragge, her husband was far too anxious
for the promised expression of Magdalen's decision to pay his customary
attention to questions of cookery. When breakfast was over, he dismissed
Mrs. Wragge, and merely referred to the omelette by telling her that she
had his full permission to "give it to the dogs."
"How does my little proposal look by daylight?" he asked, placing chairs
for Magdalen and himself. "Which is it to be: 'Captain Wragge, take
charge of me?' or, 'Captain Wragge, good-morning?'"
"You shall hear directly," replied Magdalen. "I have something to say
first. I told you, last night, that I had another object in view besides
the object of earning my living on the stage--"
"I beg your pardon," interposed Captain Wragge.
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