“A hit—­a palpable hit,” said the captain, jocosely exhibiting the tails of his threadbare shooting jacket, as a practical commentary on Magdalen’s remark.  “My dear girl, here or elsewhere, the crop never fails—­but one man can’t always gather it in.  The assistance of intelligent co-operation is, I regret to say, denied me.  I have nothing in common with the clumsy rank and file of my profession, who convict themselves, before recorders and magistrates, of the worst of all offenses—­incurable stupidity in the exercise of their own vocation.  Such as you see me, I stand entirely alone.  After years of successful self-dependence, the penalties of celebrity are beginning to attach to me.  On my way from the North, I pause at this interesting city for the third time; I consult my Books for the customary references to past local experience; I find under the heading, ‘Personal position in York,’ the initials, T. W. K., signifying Too Well Known.  I refer to my Index, and turn to the surrounding neighborhood.  The same brief marks meet my eye.  ’Leeds.  T. W. K.—­Scarborough.  T. W. K.—­Harrowgate.  T. W. K.’—­and so on.  What is the inevitable consequence?  I suspend my proceedings; my resources evaporate; and my fair relative finds me the pauper gentleman whom she now sees before her.”

“Your books?” said Magdalen.  “What books do you mean?”

“You shall see,” replied the captain.  “Trust me, or not, as you like—­I trust you implicitly.  You shall see.”

With those words he retired into the back room.  While he was gone, Magdalen stole another look at Mrs. Wragge.  Was she still self-isolated from her husband’s deluge of words?  Perfectly self-isolated.  She had advanced the imaginary omelette to the last stage of culinary progress; and she was now rehearsing the final operation of turning it over—­with the palm of her hand to represent the dish, and the cookery-book to impersonate the frying-pan.  “I’ve got it,” said Mrs. Wragge, nodding across the room at Magdalen.  “First put the frying-pan on the dish, and then tumble both of them over.”

Captain Wragge returned, carrying a neat black dispatch-box, adorned with a bright brass lock.  He produced from the box five or six plump little books, bound in commercial calf and vellum, and each fitted comfortably with its own little lock.

“Mind!” said the moral agriculturist, “I take no credit to myself for this:  it is my nature to be orderly, and orderly I am.  I must have everything down in black and white, or I should go mad!  Here is my commercial library:  Daybook, Ledger, Book of Districts, Book of Letters, Book of Remarks, and so on.  Kindly throw your eye over any one of them.  I flatter myself there is no such thing as a blot, or a careless entry in it, from the first page to the last.  Look at this room—­is there a chair out of place?  Not if I know it!  Look at me.  Am I dusty? am I dirty? am I half shaved?  Am I, in brief, a speckless pauper, or am I not?  Mind!  I take no credit to myself; the nature of the man, my dear girl—­the nature of the man!”