gave a shrewder guess. "Thirty, then, as it stands?"
Mrs. Gracedew looked more and more responsible; she communed afresh with the place; but she too evidently had her conscience. "It would be giving it away!"
Mr. Prodmore, at this, could scarcely contain himself. "It would be giving it away!"
The second speaker had meanwhile conceived the design of showing that, though still crimson, he was not ashamed. "You'd hold out for forty———?"
Mrs. Gracedew required a minute to answer—a very marked minute during which the whole place, pale old portraits and lurking old echoes and all, might have made you feel how much depended on her; to the degree that the consciousness in her face became finally a reason for her not turning it to Gossage. "Fifty thousand, Captain Yule, is what I think I should propose."
If the place had seemed to listen it might have been the place that, in admiring accents from the gentleman with the green tie, took up the prodigious figure. "Fifty thousand pound!"
It was echoed in a high note from the lady he had previously addressed. "Fifty thousand!"
Yet it was Mr. Prodmore who caught it up
