“Matilda,” answered Mrs. Wragge, in a state of the densest bewilderment.

“Nothing of the sort!” cried the captain, fiercely.  “How dare you tell me your name’s Matilda?  Your name is Julia.  Who am I?—­Hold that basket of sandwiches straight, or I’ll pitch it into the sea!—­Who am I?”

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Wragge, meekly taking refuge in the negative side of the question this time.

“Sit down!” said her husband, pointing to the low garden wall of North Shingles Villa.  “More to the right!  More still!  That will do.  You don’t know?” repeated the captain, sternly confronting his wife as soon as he had contrived, by seating her, to place her face on a level with his own.  “Don’t let me hear you say that a second time.  Don’t let me have a woman who doesn’t know who I am to operate on my beard to-morrow morning.  Look at me!  More to the left—­more still—­that will do.  Who am I?  I’m Mr. Bygrave—­Christian name, Thomas.  Who are you?  You’re Mrs. Bygrave—­Christian name, Julia.  Who is that young lady who traveled with you from London?  That young lady is Miss Bygrave—­Christian name, Susan.  I’m her clever uncle Tom; and you’re her addle-headed aunt Julia.  Say it all over to me instantly, like the Catechism!  What is your name?”

“Spare my poor head!” pleaded Mrs. Wragge.  “Oh, please spare my poor head till I’ve got the stage-coach out of it!”

“Don’t distress her,” said Magdalen, joining them at that moment.  “She will learn it in time.  Come into the house.”

Captain Wragge shook his wary head once more.  “We are beginning badly,” he said, with less politeness than usual.  “My wife’s stupidity stands in our way already.”

They went into the house.  Magdalen was perfectly satisfied with all the captain’s arrangements; she accepted the room which he had set apart for her; approved of the woman servant whom he had engaged; presented herself at tea-time the moment she was summoned but still showed no interest whatever in the new scene around her.  Soon after the table was cleared, although the daylight had not yet faded out, Mrs. Wragge’s customary drowsiness after fatigue of any kind overcame her, and she received her husband s orders to leave the room (taking care that she left it “up at heel"), and to betake herself (strictly in the character of Mrs. Bygrave) to bed.  As soon as they were left alone, the captain looked hard at Magdalen, and waited to be spoken to.  She said nothing.  He ventured next on opening the conversation by a polite inquiry after the state of her health.  “You look fatigued,” he remarked, in his most insinuating manner.  “I am afraid the journey has been too much for you.”

“No,” she said, looking out listlessly through the window; “I am not more tired than usual.  I am always weary now; weary at going to bed, weary at getting up.  If you would like to hear what I have to say to you to-night, I am willing and ready to say it.  Can’t we go out?  It is very hot here; and the droning of those men’s voices is beyond all endurance.”  She pointed through the window to a group of boatmen idling, as only nautical men can idle, against the garden wall.  “Is there no quiet walk in this wretched place?” she asked, impatiently.  “Can’t we breathe a little fresh air, and escape being annoyed by strangers?”