Louis. You shall have mine. It is as warm, but not so heavy.
Eloise [angrily]. Oh, I am sick of your eternal packing and unpacking! I am sick of it!
Anne. Watch at the window, then. [She goes swiftly to the portmanteau, opens it, tosses out the green mantle and the brocaded skirt and bodice, and tests the weight of the portmanteau.] I think it will be light enough now, Louis.
Louis. Do not leave those things in sight. If our landlord should come in—
Anne. I'll hide them in the bed in the next room. Eloise! [She points imperiously to the window. Eloise goes to it slowly and for a moment makes a scornful pretense of being on watch there; but as soon as Madame de Laseyne has left the room she turns, leaning against the wall and regarding Louis with languid amusement. He continues to struggle with his ill-omened "permit," but, by and by, becoming aware of her gaze, glances consciously over his shoulder and meets her half-veiled eyes. Coloring, he looks away, stares dreamily at nothing, sighs, and finally writes again, absently, like a man under a spell, which, indeed, he is. The pen drops from his hand with a faint click upon the floor. He makes the movement of a person suddenly awakened, and, holding his last writing near one of the candles, examines it critically. Then he breaks into low, bitter laughter.]
Eloise [unwillingly curious]. You find something amusing?
Louis. Myself. One of my mistakes, that is all.
Eloise [indifferently]. Your mirth must be indefatigable if you can still laugh at those.
Louis. I agree. I am a history of error.
Eloise. You should have made it a vocation; it is your one genius. And yet—truly because I am a fool I think, as Anne says—I let you hector me into a sillier mistake than any of yours.