"Stop, stop, stop!" cried the Captain, in great agitation; "who told you that I had £330 a-year?"
"Why, Bolt—don't be angry with him."
"Bolt is a blockhead. From £330 a-year take £200, and the remainder is all my income, besides my half-pay."
My mother opened her eyes, and so did I.
"To that £130 add, if you please, £130 of your own. All that you have over, my dear sister, is yours or Austin's, or your boy's; but not a shilling can go to give luxuries to a miserly, battered old soldier. Do you understand me?"
"No, Roland," said my mother, "I don't understand you at all. Does not your property bring in £330 a-year?"
"Yes, but it has a debt of £200 a-year on it," said the Captain, gloomily and reluctantly.
"Oh, Roland!" cried my mother tenderly, and approaching so near that, had my father been in the room, I am sure she would have been bold enough to kiss the stern Captain, though I never saw him look sterner and less kissable. "Oh, Roland!" cried my mother, concluding that famous EPIPHONEMA which my uncle's APOSIOPESIS had before nipped in the bud, "and yet you would have made us, who are twice as rich, rob you of this little all!"
"Ah!" said Roland, trying to smile, "but I should have had my own way then, and starved you shockingly. No talk then of 'little parties,' and suchlike. But you must not now turn the tables against me, nor bring your £420 a-year as a set-off to my £130."
"Why," said my mother generously, "you forget the money's worth that you contribute—all that your grounds supply, and all that we save by it. I am sure that that's worth a yearly £300 at the least."