“Mrs. Wragge is not deaf,” explained the captain.  “She’s only a little slow.  Constitutionally torpid—­if I may use the expression.  I am merely loud with her (and I beg you will honor me by being loud, too) as a necessary stimulant to her ideas.  Shout at her—­and her mind comes up to time.  Speak to her—­and she drifts miles away from you directly.  Mrs. Wragge!”

Mrs. Wragge instantly acknowledged the stimulant.  “Tea, captain?” she inquired, for the second time.

“Put your cap straight!” shouted her husband.  “I beg ten thousand pardons,” he resumed, again addressing himself to Magdalen.  “The sad truth is, I am a martyr to my own sense of order.  All untidiness, all want of system and regularity, cause me the acutest irritation.  My attention is distracted, my composure is upset; I can’t rest till things are set straight again.  Externally speaking, Mrs. Wragge is, to my infinite regret, the crookedest woman I ever met with.  More to the right!” shouted the captain, as Mrs. Wragge, like a well-trained child, presented herself with her revised head-dress for her husband’s inspection.

Mrs. Wragge immediately pulled the cap to the left.  Magdalen rose, and set it right for her.  The moon-face of the giantess brightened for the first time.  She looked admiringly at Magdalen’s cloak and bonnet.  “Do you like dress, miss?” she asked, suddenly, in a confidential whisper.  “I do.”

“Show Miss Vanstone her room,” said the captain, looking as if the whole house belonged to him.  “The spare-room, the landlady’s spare-room, on the third floor front.  Offer Miss Vanstone all articles connected with the toilet of which she may stand in need.  She has no luggage with her.  Supply the deficiency, and then come back and make tea.”

Mrs. Wragge acknowledged the receipt of these lofty directions by a look of placid bewilderment, and led the way out of the room; Magdalen following her, with a candle presented by the attentive captain.  As soon as they were alone on the landing outside, Mrs. Wragge raised the tattered old book which she had been reading when Magdalen was first presented to her, and which she had never let out of her hand since, and slowly tapped herself on the forehead with it.  “Oh, my poor head!” said the tall lady, in meek soliloquy; “it’s Buzzing again worse than ever!”

“Buzzing?” repeated Magdalen, in the utmost astonishment.

Mrs. Wragge ascended the stairs, without offering any explanation, stopped at one of the rooms on the second floor, and led the way in.

“This is not the third floor,” said Magdalen.  “This is not my room, surely?”

“Wait a bit,” pleaded Mrs. Wragge.  “Wait a bit, miss, before we go up any higher.  I’ve got the Buzzing in my head worse than ever.  Please wait for me till I’m a little better again.”

“Shall I ask for help?” inquired Magdalen.  “Shall I call the landlady?”

“Help?” echoed Mrs. Wragge.  “Bless you, I don’t want help!  I’m used to it.  I’ve had the Buzzing in my head, off and on—­how many years?” She stopped, reflected, lost herself, and suddenly tried a question in despair.  “Have you ever been at Darch’s Dining-rooms in London?” she asked, with an appearance of the deepest interest.