“How much have you lost by this voyage of yours? As for throwing money into the sea—”
John Gore pretended to no grievance.
“It is only what other men would have spent on petticoats and horses. Call it an eccentric extravagance. I have had a glimpse of the earth to balance the loss. About my Yorkshire property?”
“I have had my hand on it, Jack. Swindale has been a success as steward. More money—for the sea’s maw. Is that the cry?”
John Gore maintained a meditative reserve.
“Possibly.”
“I have the rent-roll—and a copy of the accounts in my desk. Go down and see Swindale for yourself. There is no need to think of such a means as a mortgage. Money has been accumulating. Besides, my boy, though your mother left her property to you, my own purse is always open.”
The son thanked him, and changed to another subject—a subject that had been lurking for an hour or more in the conscious background of my lord’s mind.
“How is Lionel Purcell?”
Stephen Gore turned his wineglass round and round by the stem, eying his own white fingers and the exquisite lace of his ruffles.