Von Rettenmayer.

Biting his nails. Prezisely! There’s the eading and dringking.

Enid.

One can’t starve, that’s certain.

Von Rettenmayer.

Which would amound to——?

Enid.

Watching him out of the corner of her eye. I believe aunt and I could manage to feed ourselves on forty francs a day—or fifty—at a pinch.

Von Rettenmayer.

His face growing longer and longer. A hundred-and-twendy-five—and fifdy——