"Oh, Guy!"
"Well, what is the use of all these empty rooms? It takes an army of servants to keep them clean, and for no purpose. We haven't got enough money to keep open house, or I could fill all these rooms with people I know, but what with this place, and the mortgages, and bad tenants, it's a deuce of a nuisance altogether. I wish someone would take the Hall off my hands as a museum, or an almshouse, after the style of Hampton Court."
"You wouldn't sell it?"
"No, I daresay I wouldn't. I can't do with it, and I can't do without it. It's a dead lock. But, if Aunt Jelly would only give up the ghost and leave us her tin, we could keep the whole shop going beautifully."
"I'm afraid there's no chance of that."
"No, there isn't. Aunt Jelly is one of those aggravating old women who'll see the end of the present century."
"Well, that's not far off," said Alizon mischievously.
"Too far off for us to get her money, my dear," replied Guy candidly. "I believe she's immortal."
They left the room in which they were standing and resumed their walk through the house, stopping in the picture gallery which contained the Errington portraits, and also a number of celebrated pictures, all of which Guy contemplated ruefully.
"Can't even sell these," he said with a groan. "Fancy, what humbug--they're all heirlooms, and I'd have to apply to Chancery to get permission, which I daresay they'd refuse. It takes me all my time to keep up this place and live decently, yet all this money is hanging on the wall in the shape of these pictures. It's awful bosh, just like making a child the present of a shilling on condition he doesn't spend it. Humbug!"