“What do they want for it?” She shook her head, and her loosened hair fell glowingly about her cheeks.
“Seventy-five thousand dollars. They'll take sixty-eight.”
“Less than half what we paid for our old yacht when we married. And we didn't have a good time in her. You were—”
“Well, I discovered I was too much of an American to be content to be a rich man's son. You aren't blaming me for that?”
“Oh, no. Only it was a very businesslike honeymoon. How far are you along with the deal, George?”
“I can mail the deposit on the purchase money to-morrow morning, and we can have the thing completed in a fortnight or three weeks—if you say so.”
“Friars Pardon—Friars Pardon!” Sophie chanted rapturously, her dark gray eyes big with delight. “All the farms? Gale Anstey, Burnt House, Rocketts, the Home Farm, and Griffons? Sure you've got 'em all?”
“Sure.” He smiled.
“And the woods? High Pardons Wood, Lower Pardons, Suttons, Dutton's Shaw, Reuben's Ghyll, Maxey's Ghyll, and both the Oak Hangers? Sure you've got 'em all?”
“Every last stick. Why, you know them as well as I do.” He laughed. “They say there's five thousand—a thousand pounds' worth of lumber—timber they call it—in the Hangers alone.”