“Millstones, darling,” said Henry.
“You’re wrong,” said Charlot. “Hung round our necks like the upper and nether milestones is the full expression. You’re thinking of the mills of God. Charlie, how much do you suppose we’ll have when everything has been paid up?”
“Really, darling, I don’t quite know. Old Rattisbon will tell us, of course.”
“Well, at a guess.”
“I really — well, I suppose it should be about thirty thousand.”
“Per annum,” asked Patch casually, “or just the bare thirty thousand to last for ever?”
“My dear child; a year of course.”
“And, of course,” said Charlot, “at least half of that will go in taxes and then there will be people like Mr. Grumball to pacify and those enormous places to run. What shall we have left?”
“Nothing,” said Colin deeply.
“So there you are, you see,” cried Charlot triumphantly. “Nothing! I was thinking about it during the funeral and I clearly foresee that we must use our cunning and cut our capers according to our cloth. Now this is my plan. We’ll never manage to let Brummell Street, shall we?”