Erskine’s color deepened, and he moved away to the table where the albums lay.
“This is the collection of photographs I spoke of,” said Trefusis, following him and opening one of the books. “I took many of them myself under great difficulties with regard to light—the only difficulty that money could not always remove. This is a view of my father’s house—or rather one of his houses. It cost seventy-five thousand pounds.”
“Very handsome indeed,” said Sir Charles, secretly disgusted at being invited to admire a photograph, such as house agents exhibit, of a vulgarly designed country house, merely because it had cost seventy-five thousand pounds. The figures were actually written beneath the picture.
“This is the drawing-room, and this one of the best bedrooms. In the right-hand corner of the mount you will see a note of the cost of the furniture, fittings, napery, and so forth. They were of the most luxurious description.”
“Very interesting,” said Sir Charles, hardly disguising the irony of the comment.
“Here is a view—this is the first of my own attempts—of the apartment of one of the under servants. It is comfortable and spacious, and solidly furnished.”
“So I perceive.”
“These are the stables. Are they not handsome?”
“Palatial. Quite palatial.”
“There is every luxury that a horse could desire, including plenty of valets to wait on him. You are noting the figures, I hope. There is the cost of the building and the expenditure per horse per annum.”