Another nod in silence was all the reply.
“Pepystells estimate is large,—don't you think so?”
He nodded again.
“Nearly seventy thousand pounds! And that does not include the gate tower, which seems a point for after consideration.”
“I remember,” muttered Cashel, in a voice that implied anything rather than a mind attentive to the subject before it.
“Now, it would be as well,” said Mr. Kennyfeck, drawing a long breath, and, as it were, preparing himself for a great effort, “to put a little order into our affairs. Your first year or two will be costly ones,—building expenses, equipage, horses, furniture, election charges. Much of your capital is vested in foreign securities, which it would be injurious to sell at this moment. Don't you think”—here he changed his voice to an almost insinuating softness—“don't you think that by devoting a certain portion of your income,—say a third, or one-half, perhaps,—for the present, to meet these charges—” He paused, for he saw from Cashel's occupied look that he was not attending to his words.
“Well—continue,” said Roland, affecting to wait for his conclusion.
“I was about to ask, sir,” said Kennyfeck, boldly, “what sum would you deem sufficient for your yearly expenditure?”
“What is the amount of my income?” asked Cashel, bluntly.
“In good years, something above sixteen thousand pounds; in bad ones, somewhat less than twelve.”