BLUNTSCHLI.
No. (He sits down beside her, with renewed interest, and says, with some complacency.) When did you send it to me?
RAINA.
(indignantly). I did not send it to you. (She turns her head away, and adds, reluctantly.) It was in the pocket of that coat.
BLUNTSCHLI.
(pursing his lips and rounding his eyes). Oh-o-oh! I never found it. It must be there still.
RAINA.
(springing up). There still!—for my father to find the first time he puts his hand in his pocket! Oh, how could you be so stupid?
BLUNTSCHLI.
(rising also). It doesn’t matter: it’s only a photograph: how can he tell who it was intended for? Tell him he put it there himself.
RAINA.
(impatiently). Yes, that is so clever—so clever! What shall I do?
BLUNTSCHLI.
Ah, I see. You wrote something on it. That was rash!
RAINA.
(annoyed almost to tears). Oh, to have done such a thing for you, who care no more—except to laugh at me—oh! Are you sure nobody has touched it?
BLUNTSCHLI.
Well, I can’t be quite sure. You see I couldn’t carry it about with me all the time: one can’t take much luggage on active service.
RAINA.
What did you do with it?