Pff! _You_ won't get him alone, you stupid; _he'll_ take precious good care of that. [_Finding that LUIGI and the waiters have departed, and walking across to the left._] Ah, but it isn't dancing my mind's dwelling on just now, dear boy. VON RETTENMAYER. [_Following her._] Nod? ENID. It's rest I'm yearning for-- my holiday!-- rest for my weary bones. [_Turning to him without a sign of disturbance._] Karl, I'm simply bursting with rage. VON RETTENMAYER. Rage? ENID. That wretched hotel at Ostend-- the Plage! They've the confounded impudence to ask me a hundred-and-twenty-five francs a day for two cubby-holes on the third floor, for my aunt and me. VON RETTENMAYER. Monsdrous. [_With a shrug._] But Ostend is-- Ostend. ENID. Thanks for the information. Is that all the sympathy you can offer? VON RETTENMAYER. Bardon. [_Humbly._] There may be gheaper hodels. ENID. Where the common people pay for their beds and meals with Cook's coupons! [_Sitting upon the arm of the further settee in the centre and swinging her feet._] Oh, it doesn't matter. I suppose it'll have to be Swanage, or some brisk resort of that description. [_Sighing._] So be it! [_Humming._] Tra, lal, lal, la----! VON RETTENMAYER. [_Sitting on the nearer settee in the centre, close to her, with an anxious expression._] A hundred-and-twendy-five frangks a day? ENID. Including nothing-- absolutely nothing! 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---- 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. VON RETTENMAYER. But one begomes sig of a blace afder a fordnight. ENID. If you only go for enjoyment; not if you go for rest-- rest. VON RETTENMAYER. Three weegs, then? ENID. A month. Smythe gives me the whole of August. VON RETTENMAYER. [_Passing his hand across his forehead._] A month! ENID. [_Rising and carefully picking a piece of fluff from her skirt._] We're losing this dance. Shall we have a turn? [_He gets to his feet with some difficulty and then faces her._ VON RETTENMAYER. [_Breathing heavily._] Enid---- ENID. [_Guilelessly._] Yes? VON RETTENMAYER. [_Putting his heels together and bowing to her._] If you would permid me to be your bangker during your sday at Ostend-- four weegs---- ENID. Karl---- VON RETTENMAYER. I should be mosd gradified. ENID. [_Going to him._] I couldn't. Such an obligation! VON RETTENMAYER.