Yes, that’s my bag. I left it at the lace counter. Thank you. Please
give it to me. What? I must prove property? Why, don’t you see it’s
mine? That twisty silver monogram on the side is really E. C. S. That’s
my name, Ella C. Saunders. I told Jim I thought the letters were too
wiggly to be easily read, but I never thought anybody’d want to read it
but me. Describe contents? Why, of course I can describe the contents!
In one pocket is a sample of lace, just Platte Val, you know, not an
expensive lace, and with it—I think it’s with it—is a sample of
rose-colored crêpe de Chine—that is, not exactly rose-colored—sort of
crushed plummish or burnt magenta—but no—come to think, I left those
samples with my dressmaker. Well, anyway, there’s a Subway ticket—or
let me see, did I use that coming down? I believe I did! Well, there’s a
little memorandum card that slips in—the celluloid sort, you know. No,
there’s nothing written on it. I don’t use it because, though they
pretend you can wash them like a slate, you can’t. They just smudge.
What do you mean by saying I haven’t told a definite thing yet? I’ve
told you lots! Well, there’s some money—I don’t know how much; some
chicken feed, as Jim calls it—and a five-dollar bill, I think—oh no—I
paid that to the butcher. Well, there must be a one-dollar bill—two,
maybe. Oh, and there’s a little pencil, a goldy-looking one; it came
with the bag. And some powder-papers—those leaves, you know; but I
believe I did use the last one yesterday at the matinée. Oh, dear, how
fussy you are! I tell you it’s my bag; I recognize it myself. Can’t I
tell you of some personal belongings in it so you’ll be sure? Why, yes,
of course I can. My visiting-card, Mrs. James L. Saunders, is in that
small inside pocket.
“Why didn’t I tell you that in the first place? Why, you rattled me so;
and besides, I thought I had to tell of my own little individual
properties, like samples and tickets and things. Anybody might have her
visiting-card in her bag!”