Magdalen took the little bag from her bosom, and gave him the money, with a contemptuous wonder at the number of words which he had wasted on her for the purpose of cheating on so small a scale.  In the old days at Combe-Raven, five-and-twenty pounds flowed from a stroke of her father’s pen into the hands of any one in the house who chose to ask for it.

Captain Wragge’s eyes dwelt on the little bag as the eyes of lovers dwell on their mistresses.  “Happy bag!” he murmured, as she put it back in her bosom.  He rose; dived into a corner of the room; produced his neat dispatch-box; and solemnly unlocked it on the table between Magdalen and himself.

“The nature of the man, my dear girl—­the nature of the man,” he said, opening one of his plump little books bound in calf and vellum.  “A transaction has taken place between us.  I must have it down in black and white.”  He opened the book at a blank page, and wrote at the top, in a fine mercantile hand:  "Miss Vanstone, the Younger:  In account with Horatio Wragge, late o f the Royal Militia.  Dr.—­Cr.  Sept. 24th, 1846.  Dr.:  To estimated value of H. Wragge’s interest in Miss V.’s first year’s salary—­say—­200 pounds.  Cr.  By paid on account, 25 pounds." Having completed the entry—­and having also shown, by doubling his original estimate on the Debtor side, that Magdalen’s easy compliance with his demand on her had not been thrown away on him—­the captain pressed his blotting-paper over the wet ink, and put away the book with the air of a man who had done a virtuous action, and who was above boasting about it.

“Excuse me for leaving you abruptly,” he said.  “Time is of importance; I must make sure of the chaise.  If Mrs. Wragge comes in, tell her nothing—­she is not sharp enough to be trusted.  If she presumes to ask questions, extinguish her immediately.  You have only to be loud.  Pray take my authority into your own hands, and be as loud with Mrs. Wragge as I am!” He snatched up his tall hat, bowed, smiled, and tripped out of the room.

Sensible of little else but of the relief of being alone; feeling no more distinct impression than the vague sense of some serious change having taken place in herself and her position, Magdalen let the events of the morning come and go like shadows on her mind, and waited wearily for what the day might bring forth.  After the lapse of some time, the door opened softly.  The giant figure of Mrs. Wragge stalked into the room, and stopped opposite Magdalen in solemn astonishment.

“Where are your Things?” asked Mrs. Wragge, with a burst of incontrollable anxiety.  “I’ve been upstairs looking in your drawers.  Where are your night-gowns and night-caps? and your petticoats and stockings? and your hair-pins and bear’s grease, and all the rest of it?”

“My luggage is left at the railway station,” said Magdalen.

Mrs. Wragge’s moon-face brightened dimly.  The ineradicable female instinct of Curiosity tried to sparkle in her faded blue eyes—­flickered piteously—­and died out.