room melodramatically.]
BLUNTSCHLI. [Dubiously.] There’s reason in everything. You said you’d told only two lies in your whole life. Dear young lady: isn’t that rather a short allowance? I’m quite a straightforward man myself; but it wouldn’t last me a whole morning.
RAINA. [Staring haughtily at him.] Do you know, sir, that you are insulting me?
BLUNTSCHLI. I can’t help it. When you get into that noble attitude and speak in that thrilling voice, I admire you; but I find it impossible to believe a single word you say.
RAINA. [Superbly.] Captain Bluntschli!
BLUNTSCHLI. [Unmoved.] Yes?
RAINA. [Coming a little towards him, as if she could not believe her senses.] Do you mean what you said just now? Do you know what you said just now?
BLUNTSCHLI. I do.
RAINA. [Gasping.] I! I!!! [She points to herself incredulously, meaning “I, Raina Petkoff, tell lies!” He meets her gaze unflinchingly. She suddenly sits down beside him, and adds, with a complete change of manner from the heroic to the familiar.] How did you find me out?
BLUNTSCHLI. [Promptly.] Instinct, dear young lady. Instinct, and experience of the world.
RAINA. [Wonderingly.] Do you know, you are the first man I ever met who did not take me seriously?
BLUNTSCHLI. You mean, don’t you, that I am the first man that has ever taken you quite seriously?
RAINA. Yes, I suppose I do mean that. [Cosily, quite at her ease with him.] How strange it is to be talked to in such a way! You know, I’ve always gone on like that—I mean the noble attitude and the thrilling voice. I did it when I was a tiny child to my nurse. She believed in it. I do it before my parents. They believe in it. I do it before Sergius. He believes in it.
BLUNTSCHLI. Yes: he’s a little in that line himself, isn’t he?
RAINA. [Startled.] Do you think so?
BLUNTSCHLI. You know him better than I do.
RAINA. I wonder—I wonder is he? If I thought that—! [Discouraged.] Ah, well, what does it matter? I suppose, now that you’ve found me out, you despise me.
BLUNTSCHLI. [Warmly, rising.] No, my dear young lady, no, no, no a thousand times. It’s part of your youth—part of your charm. I’m like all the rest of them—the nurse—your parents—Sergius: I’m your infatuated admirer.
RAINA. [Pleased.] Really?
BLUNTSCHLI. [Slapping his breast smartly with his hand, German fashion.] Hand aufs Herz! Really and truly.
RAINA. [Very happy.] But what did you think of me for giving you my portrait?
BLUNTSCHLI. [Astonished.] Your portrait! You never gave me your portrait.
RAINA. [Quickly.] Do you mean to say you never got it?
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?
BLUNTSCHLI. When I got through to Pirot 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, shop-keeping 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?
BLUNTSCHLI. My father’s dead. [He looks at the telegram with his lips pursed, musing on the unexpected change in his arrangements.]
RAINA. Oh, how very sad!
BLUNTSCHLI. Yes: I shall have to start for home in an hour. He has left a lot of big hotels behind him to be looked after. [Takes up a heavy letter in a long blue envelope.] Here’s a whacking letter from the family solicitor. [He pulls out the enclosures and glances over them.] Great Heavens! Seventy! Two hundred! [In a crescendo of dismay.] Four hundred! Four thousand!! Nine thousand six hundred!!! What on earth shall I do with them all?
RAINA. [Timidly.] Nine thousand hotels?
BLUNTSCHLI. Hotels! Nonsense. If you only knew!—oh, it’s too ridiculous! Excuse me: I must give my fellow orders about starting. [He leaves the room hastily, with the documents in his hand.]
LOUKA. [Tauntingly.] He has not much heart, that Swiss, though he is so fond of the Servians. He has not a word of grief for his poor father.
RAINA. [Bitterly.] Grief!—a man who has been doing nothing but killing people for years! What does he care? What does any soldier care? [She goes to the door, evidently restraining her tears with difficulty.]
LOUKA.
