ALICE. ‘One never can tell.’ AMY, making conversation, ‘Did you notice that there is a circular drive to the house?’ ALICE. ‘No, I didn’t notice.’ AMY. ‘That would be because the cab filled it; but you can see it if you are walking.’ ALICE. ‘I shall look out for it.’ Grown desperate, ‘Amy, have you nothing more important to say to me?’ AMY, faltering, ‘You mean--the keys? Here they are; all with labels on them. And here are the tradesmen’s books. They are all paid up to Wednesday.’ She sadly lets them go. They lie disregarded in her mother’s lap. ALICE. ‘Is there nothing else?’ AMY, with a flash of pride. ‘Perhaps you have noticed that my hair is up?’ ALICE. ‘It so took me aback, Amy, when you came into the room. How long have you had it up?’ AMY, with large eyes, ‘Not very long. I--I began only to-day.’ ALICE, imploringly, ‘Dear, put it down again. You are not grown up.’ AMY, almost sternly, ‘I feel I am a woman now.’ ALICE, abject, ‘A woman--you? Am I never to know my daughter as a girl!’ AMY. ‘You were married before you were eighteen.’ ALICE. ‘Ah, but I had no mother. And even at that age I knew the world.’ AMY, smiling sadly, ‘Oh, mother, not so well as I know it.’ ALICE, sharply, ‘What can you know of the world?’ AMY, shuddering, ‘More I hope, mother, than you will ever know.’ ALICE, alarmed, ‘My child!’ Seizing her: ‘Amy, tell me what you know.’ AMY. ‘Don’t ask me, please. I have sworn not to talk of it.’ ALICE. ‘Sworn? To whom?’ AMY. ‘To another.’ Alice, with a sinking, pounces on her daughter’s engagement finger; but it is unadorned. ALICE. ‘Tell me, Amy, who is that other?’ AMY, bravely, ‘It is our secret.’ ALICE. ‘Amy, I beg you--’ AMY, a heroic figure, ‘Dear mother, I am so sorry I must decline.’ ALICE. ‘You defy me.’ She takes hold of her daughter’s shoulders. ‘Amy, you drive me frantic. If you don’t tell me at once I shall insist on your father--. Oh, you--’ It is not to be denied that she is shaking Amy when the Colonel once more intrudes. COLONEL, aghast, ‘Good heavens, Alice, again! Amy, what does this mean?’ AMY, as she runs, insulted and in tears, from the room, ‘It means, father, that I love _you_ very much.’ COLONEL, badgered, ‘Won’t you explain, Alice?’ ALICE. ‘Robert, I am in terror about Amy.’ COLONEL. ‘Why?’ ALICE. ‘Don’t ask me, dear--not now--not till I have spoken to her again.’ She clings to her husband. ‘Robert, there can’t be anything in it?’ COLONEL. ‘If you mean anything wrong with our girl, there isn’t, memsahib. What great innocent eyes she has.’ ALICE, eagerly, ‘Yes, yes, hasn’t she, Robert.’ COLONEL. ‘All’s well with Amy, dear.’ ALICE. ‘Of course it is. It was silly of me--My Amy.’ COLONEL. ‘And mine.’ ALICE. ‘But she seems to me hard to understand.’ With her head on his breast, ‘I begin to feel Robert that I should have come back to my children long ago--or I shouldn’t have come back at all.’