"Is he hard hit—like everyone else?" she inquired casually. "Or perhaps it's private, I oughtn't to ask."
"I'm afraid it won't be private much longer," I said. "At least—I oughtn't to say that. I don't know yet."
"You mean—it's a big amount?"
"Roughly, fifteen thousand pounds," I said, referring to the accountant's letter. "I'm going to talk it over with Bertrand, and we'll see what we can do. It's such a hopeless time to try and sell securities, that's the devil of it."
Sonia looked at me reflectively.
"And if you can't raise it, what happens? He goes bankrupt? Everything he's got together in all these years—all gone?"
"That's about it."
"Um." She got up and began drawing on her gloves. "Well, I suppose he'll survive it—like other people. I must go, George. How much longer are they going to keep you in bed? Over Sunday? I can come and see you then; it's my afternoon out. Don't try to write any more. I'll do it for you. You ought to lie down and go to sleep; I'm afraid I've tired you."
"Indeed you haven't. And I've only got one more letter. I always write to Raney on Thursday."