Enid.
A hundred-and-seventy-five. Stroking his hair with a finger. Call it two hundred.
Von Rettenmayer.
Leaning back appalled. Fifdy-sigs bounds a weeg!
Enid.
Sixty, in round figures.
Von Rettenmayer.
For a fordnight?
Enid.
Oh, no, dear; a fortnight’s no use.