Anne [flustered, advancing toward him as if to take it]. It was—it was left here this afternoon by our landlord.
Valsin [musingly]. That is very, very puzzling. [He leans against the dressing-table in a careless attitude, his back to her.]
Anne [cavalierly]. Why "puzzling"?
Valsin. Because I sent him on an errand to Paris this morning. [She flinches, but he does not turn to look at her, continuing in a tone of idle curiosity.] I suppose your own excursion to Paris was quite an event for you, Widow Balsage. You do not take many journeys?
Anne. I am too poor.
Valsin. And you have not been contemplating another departure from Boulogne?
Anne. No.
Valsin [still in the same careless attitude, his back toward her and the closed door]. Good. It is as I thought: the portmanteau is for ornament.
Anne [choking]. It belongs to my niece. She came only an hour ago. She has not unpacked.
Valsin. Naturally. Too ill.