RICHARDSON. ‘I minds, but it makes me that shy.’ She has, however, a try at it. ‘Do smoke, Mr. Rollo, I loves the smell of it.’ Steve lights his pipe; no real villain smokes a pipe. STEVE. ‘Smoking is a blessed companion to a lonely devil like myself.’ RICHARDSON. ‘Yes, sir.’ Sharply, ‘Would you say devil to a real lady, sir?’ Steve, it may be hoped, is properly confused, but here the little idyll of the chop is brought to a close by the tinkle of a bell. Richardson springs to attention. ‘That will be the friends you are expecting?’ STEVE. ‘I was only half expecting them, but I daresay you are right. Have you finished, Richardson?’ RICHARDSON. ‘Thereabouts. Would a real lady lick the bone--in company I mean?’ STEVE. ‘You know, I hardly think so.’ RICHARDSON. ‘Then I’m finished.’ STEVE, disappearing, ‘Say I’ll be back in a jiffy. I need brushing, Richardson.’ Richardson, no longer in company, is about to hold a last friendly communion with the bone when there is a knock at the door, followed by the entrance of a mysterious lady. You could never guess who the lady is, so we may admit at once that it is Miss Amy Grey. Amy is in evening dress--her only evening dress--and over it is the cloak, which she is presently to fling back with staggering effect. Just now her pale face is hiding behind the collar of it, for she is quaking inwardly though strung up to a terrible ordeal. The room is not as she expected, but she knows that men are cunning. AMY, frowning, ‘Are these Mr. Rollo’s chambers? The woman told me to knock at this door.’ She remembers with a certain satisfaction that the woman had looked at her suspiciously. RICHARDSON, the tray in her hand to give her confidence, ‘Yes, ma’am. He will be down in a minute, ma’am. He is expecting you, ma’am.’ Expecting her, is he! Amy smiles the bitter smile of knowledge. AMY. ‘We shall see.’ She looks about her. Sharply, ‘Where is his man?’ RICHARDSON, with the guilt of the chop on her conscience, ‘What man?’ AMY, brushing this subterfuge aside, ‘His man. They always have a man.’ RICHARDSON, with spirit, ‘He is a man himself.’ AMY. ‘Come, girl; who waits on him?’ RICHARDSON. ‘Me.’ AMY, rather daunted, ‘No man? Very strange.’ Fortunately she sees the two plates. ‘Stop.’ Her eyes glisten. ‘Two persons have been dining here!’ Richardson begins to tremble. ‘Why do you look so scared? Was the other a gentleman?’ RICHARDSON. ‘Oh, ma’am.’ AMY, triumphantly, ‘It was not!’ But her triumph gives way to bewilderment, for she knows that when she left the house her mother was still in it. Then who can the visitor have been? ‘Why are you trying to hide that plate? Was it a lady? Girl, tell me was it a lady?’ RICHARDSON, at bay, ‘He--he calls her a lady.’ AMY, the omniscient, ‘But you know better!’ RICHARDSON. ‘Of course I know she ain’t a real lady.’ AMY. ‘Another woman. And not even a lady.’ She has no mercy on the witness. ‘Tell me, is this the first time she has dined here?’