“I am amazed, sir, by the range of y our information,” replied Mrs. Lecount, observing the captain with some perplexity—­but thus far with no distrust.  She thought him eccentric, even for an Englishman, and possibly a little vain of his knowledge.  But he had at least paid her the implied compliment of addressing that knowledge to herself; and she felt it the more sensibly, from having hitherto found her scientific sympathies with her deceased husband treated with no great respect by the people with whom she came in contact.  “Have you extended your inquiries, sir,” she proceeded, after a momentary hesitation, “to my late husband’s branch of science?  I merely ask, Mr. Bygrave, because (though I am only a woman) I think I might exchange ideas with you on the subject of the reptile creation.”

Captain Wragge was far too sharp to risk his ready-made science on the enemy’s ground.  The old militia-man shook his wary head.

“Too vast a subject, ma’am,” he said, “for a smatterer like me.  The life and labors of such a philosopher as your husband, Mrs. Lecount, warn men of my intellectual caliber not to measure themselves with a giant.  May I inquire,” proceeded the captain, softly smoothing the way for future intercourse with Sea-view Cottage, “whether you possess any scientific memorials of the late Professor?”

“I possess his Tank, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount, modestly casting her eyes on the ground, “and one of his Subjects—­a little foreign Toad.”

“His Tank!” exclaimed the captain, in tones of mournful interest; “and his Toad!  Pardon my blunt way of speaking my mind, ma’am.  You possess an object of public interest; and, as one of the public, I acknowledge my curiosity to see it.”

Mrs. Lecount’s smooth cheeks colored with pleasure.  The one assailable place in that cold and secret nature was the place occupied by the memory of the Professor.  Her pride in his scientific achievements, and her mortification at finding them but little known out of his own country, were genuine feelings.  Never had Captain Wragge burned his adulterated incense on the flimsy altar of human vanity to better purpose than he was burning it now.

“You are very good, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount.  “In honoring my husband’s memory, you honor me.  But though you kindly treat me on a footing of equality, I must not forget that I fill a domestic situation.  I shall feel it a privilege to show you my relics, if you will allow me to ask my master’s permission first.”

She turned to Noel Vanstone; her perfectly sincere intention of making the proposed request, mingling—­in that strange complexity of motives which is found so much oftener in a woman’s mind than in a man’s—­with her jealous distrust of the impression which Magdalen had produced on her master.

“May I make a request, sir?” asked Mrs. Lecount, after waiting a moment to catch any fragments of tenderly-personal talk that might reach her, and after being again neatly baffled by Magdalen—­thanks to the camp-stool.  “Mr. Bygrave is one of the few persons in England who appreciate my husband’s scientific labors.  He honors me by wishing to see my little world of reptiles.  May I show it to him?”