STEVE. ‘Oh, very well.’ First he thinks there is something innocent about her request, and then he wonders if ‘innocent’ is the right word. ‘Well, your business, please?’ he demands, like the man of the world he hopes some day to be. AMY. ‘Why are you not in evening dress?’ STEVE, taken aback, ‘Does that matter?’ AMY, though it still worries her, ‘I suppose not.’ STEVE, with growing stiffness, ‘Your business, if you will be so good.’ Amy advances upon him. She has been seated in any case as long as they ever do sit on the stage on the same chair. AMY. ‘Stephen Rollo, the game is up.’ She likes this; she will be able to go on now. STEVE, recoiling guiltily or so she will describe it to Ginevra, ‘What on earth--’ AMY, suffering from a determination from the mouth of phrases she has collected in five theatres, ‘A chance discovery, Mr. Stephen Rollo, has betrayed your secret to me.’ STEVE, awed, ‘My secret? What is it?’ He rushes rapidly through a well-spent youth. AMY, risking a good deal, ‘It is this: that woman is your wife.’ STEVE. ‘What woman?’ AMY. ‘The woman who dined with you here this evening.’ STEVE. ‘With me?’ AMY, icily, ‘This is useless; as I have already said, the game is up.’ STEVE, glancing in a mirror to make sure he is still the same person, ‘You _look_ a nice girl but dash it all. Whom can you be taking me for? Tell me some more about myself.’ AMY. Please desist. I know everything, and in a way I am sorry for you. All these years you have kept the marriage a secret, for she is a horrid sort of woman, and now she has come back to blackmail you. That, however, is not my affair.’ STEVE, with unexpected power of irony, ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’ AMY. ‘I do say it, Mr. Stephen Rollo. I shall keep your secret--’ STEVE. ‘Ought you?’ AMY. ‘--on one condition, and on one condition only, that you return me the letters.’ STEVE. ‘The letters?’ AMY. ‘The letters.’ Steve walks the length of his room, regarding her sideways. STEVE. ‘Look here, honestly I don’t know what you are talking about. You know, I could be angry with you, but I feel sure you are sincere.’ AMY. ‘Indeed I am.’ STEVE. ‘Well, then, I assure you on my word of honour that no lady was dining with me this evening, and that I have no wife.’ AMY, blankly, ‘No wife! You are sure? Oh, think.’ STEVE. ‘I swear it.’ AMY. ‘I am very sorry.’ She sinks dispiritedly into a chair. STEVE. ‘Sorry I have no wife?’ She nods through her tears. ‘Don’t cry. How could my having a wife be a boon to you?’ AMY, plaintively, ‘It would have put you in the hollow of my hands.’ STEVE, idiotically, ‘And they are nice hands, too.’ AMY, with a consciousness that he might once upon a time have been saved by a good woman, ‘I suppose that is how you got round her.’ STEVE, stamping his foot, ‘Haven’t I told you that she doesn’t exist?’ AMY. ‘I don’t mean her--I mean her--’ He decides that she is a little crazy.