BLUNTSCHLI.
When I got through to Peerot I had to put it in safe keeping somehow. I thought of the railway cloak room; but that’s the surest place to get looted in modern warfare. So I pawned it.
RAINA.
Pawned it!!!
BLUNTSCHLI.
I know it doesn’t sound nice; but it was much the safest plan. I redeemed it the day before yesterday. Heaven only knows whether the pawnbroker cleared out the pockets or not.
RAINA.
(furious—throwing the words right into his face). You have a low, shopkeeping mind. You think of things that would never come into a gentleman’s head.
BLUNTSCHLI.
(phlegmatically). That’s the Swiss national character, dear lady.
RAINA.
Oh, I wish I had never met you. (She flounces away and sits at the window fuming.)
(Louka comes in with a heap of letters and telegrams on her salver, and crosses, with her bold, free gait, to the table. Her left sleeve is looped up to the shoulder with a brooch, shewing her naked arm, with a broad gilt bracelet covering the bruise.)
LOUKA.
(to Bluntschli). For you. (She empties the salver recklessly on the table.) The messenger is waiting. (She is determined not to be civil to a Servian, even if she must bring him his letters.)
BLUNTSCHLI.
(to Raina). Will you excuse me: the last postal delivery that reached me was three weeks ago. These are the subsequent accumulations. Four telegrams—a week old. (He opens one.) Oho! Bad news!
RAINA.
(rising and advancing a little remorsefully). Bad news?