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.
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