RAINA.
Oh, do, Captain Bluntschli.
PETKOFF.
(to Catherine). Now, Catherine, it’s of you that he’s afraid. Press him and he’ll stay.
CATHERINE.
Of course I shall be only too delighted if (appealingly) Captain Bluntschli really wishes to stay. He knows my wishes.
BLUNTSCHLI.
(in his driest military manner). I am at madame’s orders.
SERGIUS.
(cordially). That settles it!
PETKOFF.
(heartily). Of course!
RAINA.
You see, you must stay!
BLUNTSCHLI.
(smiling). Well, If I must, I must! (Gesture of despair from Catherine.)
ACT III
In the library after lunch. It is not much of a library, its literary equipment consisting of a single fixed shelf stocked with old paper-covered novels, broken backed, coffee stained, torn and thumbed, and a couple of little hanging shelves with a few gift books on them, the rest of the wall space being occupied by trophies of war and the chase. But it is a most comfortable sitting-room. A row of three large windows in the front of the house shew a mountain panorama, which is just now seen in one of its softest aspects in the mellowing afternoon light. In the left hand corner, a square earthenware stove, a perfect tower of colored pottery, rises nearly to the ceiling and guarantees plenty of warmth. The ottoman in the middle is a circular bank of decorated cushions, and the window seats are well upholstered divans. Little Turkish tables, one of them with an elaborate hookah on it, and a screen to match them, complete the handsome effect of the furnishing. There is one object, however, which is hopelessly out of keeping with its surroundings. This is a small kitchen table, much the worse for wear, fitted as a writing table with an old canister full of pens, an eggcup filled with ink, and a deplorable scrap of severely used pink blotting paper.