BLUNTSCHLI.
Yes: he’s a little in that line himself, isn’t he?
RAINA.
(startled). Do you think so?
BLUNTSCHLI.
You know him better than I do.
RAINA.
I wonder—I wonder is he? If I thought that—! (Discouraged.) Ah, well, what does it matter? I suppose, now that you’ve found me out, you despise me.
BLUNTSCHLI.
(warmly, rising). No, my dear young lady, no, no, no a thousand times. It’s part of your youth—part of your charm. I’m like all the rest of them—the nurse—your parents—Sergius: I’m your infatuated admirer.
RAINA.
(pleased). Really?
BLUNTSCHLI.
(slapping his breast smartly with his hand, German fashion). Hand aufs Herz! Really and truly.
RAINA.
(very happy). But what did you think of me for giving you my portrait?
BLUNTSCHLI.
(astonished). Your portrait! You never gave me your portrait.
RAINA.
(quickly). Do you mean to say you never got it?