“In other words, the man’s starving.  I don’t blame you, Harry Brooks.  One can’t look for old heads on young shoulders.  But, for goodness’ sake, take him into the house and give him something to eat!”

“Madam—­” again began Captain Branscome, still a prey to that mental paralysis which Mrs. Belcher’s costume and appearance ever produced upon strangers, and for which she never made the smallest allowance.

“Don’t tell me!” she snapped.  “I breed stock and I buy ’em.  I know the signs.”

“I was about to suggest, ma’am, that—­travel-stained as I am—­a wash and a shave would be even more refreshing.”

“H’m!  You’re one of those people—­eh?—­that study appearances?” (In the art of disconcerting by simple interrogation I newer knew Miss Belcher’s peer, whether for swiftness, range, or variety.) “Brought a razor with you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Take him to the house, Harry; but first show me where the hens have been laying.”

Half an hour later, as Captain Branscome, washed, brushed, and freshly shaven, descended to the breakfast-parlour, Miss Belcher entered the house by the back door, with her hat full of new-laid eggs.

“Nothing like a raw egg to start the day upon,” she announced.  “I suck ’em, for my part; but some prefer ’em beaten up in a dish of tea.”

She suited the action to the word, and beat up one in the Captain’s teacup while Plinny carved him a slice of ham.

“Ladies,” he protested, “I am ashamed.  I do not deserve this hospitality.  If you would allow me first to tell my story!”

“You’re all right,” said Miss Belcher.  “Couldn’t hurt a fly, if you wanted to.  There!  Eat up your breakfast, and then you can tell us all about it.”

The two ladies had, each in her way, a knack of making her meaning clear without subservience to the strict forms of speech.

“It will be a weight off one’s mind,” declared Plinny, “even if it should prove to be the last straw.”

“There’s one thing to be thankful for,” chimed in Miss Belcher, “and that is, Jack Rogers has gone to St. Mawes.  When there’s serious business to be discussed I always thank a Providence that clears the men out of the way.”

I glanced at Captain Branscome.  Assuredly he had come with no intention at all of unbosoming himself before a couple of ladies.  He desired—­desired desperately, I felt sure—­to confide in me alone.  But Miss Belcher’s off-handish air of authority completely nonplussed him; he sat helplessly fidgeting with his breakfast-plate.

“To tell you the truth, ladies,” he began, “I had not expected this—­ this audience.  It finds me, in a manner of speaking, unprepared.”  He ran a finger around the edge of his saucer after the manner of one performing on the musical glasses, and threw a hunted glance at the window, as though for a way of escape.  “My name, ladies, is Branscome.  I was once well-to-do, and commanded a packet in the service of his Majesty’s Postmasters-General.  But times have altered with me, and I am now an usher in a school, and a very poor man.”