Countess. You believe it was the climate—
Prince. What will you have? It must assuredly have been something—It isn’t age—I am not thirty years old—At any rate, I think I shall leave Paris, and diplomacy as well—My mother sends for me from Vienna—I received a letter from her this morning—I wanted, also, to show it to you—
(He fumbles about in his coat pocket and pulls out a letter half-tangled in some black lace.)
Countess. What lace is that coming out of your pocket?
Prince (confused). Lace? Oh! Do you see some lace?
Countess. This—But I say, my Prince, is not this one of my veils, here?
Prince. One of your veils—here?—Are you sure?
Countess. Absolutely!—And I am going to take it back, too, if you will allow me—That’s lace of great price, if you have your doubts about it.
Prince. I implore you to believe, indeed, madame, that I did not attach a mercenary value to it. But how do I come to have that veil about me?
Countess. It is very easy to explain. I must have left it at the Embassy on a visit, they charged you to return it to me, and with your usual absent-mindedness, you forgot the commission.