She won’t tell me; she expects me to know, and I don’t.  ’Pour in the omelette.’—­There!  I can do that.  ’Allow it to set, raise it round the edge; when done, turn it over to double it.’—­Oh, the number of times I turned it over and doubled it in my head, before you came in to-night!  ’Keep it soft; put the dish on the frying-pan, and turn it over.’  Which am I to turn over—­oh, mercy, try the cold towel again, and tell me which—­the dish or the frying-pan?”

“Put the dish on the frying-pan,” said Magdalen; “and then turn the frying-pan over.  That is what it means, I think.”

“Thank you kindly,” said Mrs. Wragge, “I want to get it into my head; please say it again.”

Magdalen said it again.

“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.

The room was small, close, and very poorly furnished.  In former days Miss Garth would have hesitated to offer such a room to one of the servants at Combe-Raven.  But it was quiet; it gave her a few minutes alone; and it was endurable, even welcome, on that account.  She locked herself in and walked mechanically, with a woman’s first impulse in a strange bedroom, to the rickety little table and the dingy little looking-glass.  She waited there for a moment, and then turned away with weary contempt.  “What does it matter how pale I am?” she thought to herself.  “Frank can’t see me—­what does it matter now!”

She laid aside her cloak and bonnet, and sat down to collect herself.  But the events of the day had worn her out.  The past, when she tried to remember it, only made her heart ache.  The future, when she tried to penetrate it, was a black void.  She rose again, and stood by the uncurtained window—­stood looking out, as if there was some hidden sympathy for her own desolation in the desolate night.