“Well, now, let’s see,” said Vandover, figuring on his cuff, “one hundred and eighty-six from five hundred and sixty leaves me a net monthly income of three hundred and eighty-four—­no, seventy-four.  Three hundred and seventy-four dollars.”

The lawyer shook his head while he drank another glass of hot water: 

“You see,” he said, wiping his moustache in the hollow of his palm, “you see, we haven’t figured on the mortgages yet.”

“Mortgages?” echoed Vandover.

“Yes,” answered Mr. Field, “when I spoke of expenses I was basing them upon the monthly statements of Adams & Brunt, your father’s agents.  But they never looked after the mortgages.  Your father acted directly with the banks in that matter.  I find that there are mortgages that cover the entire property, even the homestead.  They are for 6-1/2 and 7 per cent.  In some cases there are two mortgages on the same piece of property.”

“Well,” said Vandover.

“Well,” answered the lawyer, “the interest on these foots up to about two hundred and ninety dollars a month.”

Vandover made another hasty calculation on his cuff, and leaned back in his chair staring at the lawyer, saying: 

“Why, that leaves eighty-four dollars a month, net.”

“Yes,” assented Field.  “I made it that, too.”

“Why, the governor used to allow me fifty a month,” returned Vandover, “just for pocket money.”

“I’m afraid you mustn’t expect anything like that, now, Mr. Vandover,” replied Field, smiling.  “You see, when your father was alive and pursuing his profession, he made a comfortable income besides that which he derived from his realty.  His law business I consider to have been excellent when you take everything into consideration.  He often made five hundred dollars a month at it.  Such are the figures his papers show.  He could make you a handsome allowance while he was alive, but all that is stopped now!”

“Well, but didn’t he—­didn’t he leave any money, any—­any—­any lump sum?” inquired Vandover incredulously.

“There was his bank account,” answered the other.  “You see, he invested most of his savings in this same realty, and since he stopped building he seems to have lived right up to his income.”

“But eighty-four dollars!” repeated Vandover; “why, look at the house on California Street where we live.  It costs that much to run it, the servants and all.”

“Here’s your father’s domestic-account book,” answered Field, taking it up and turning the leaves.  “One hundred and seventy-five dollars a month were the average running expenses.”

"One hundred and seventy-five!" shouted Vandover, feeling suddenly as if the ground were opening under him.  “Why, great heavens!  Mr. Field, where am I going to get—­what am I going to do?”

Mr. Field smiled a little.  “Well,” he said, “you must make up your mind to live more modestly.”