AMY. ‘Then it is, yes. Ginevra, I am affianced to the man, Steve!’ Ginevra could here quickly drink a glass of water if there was one in the room. GINEVRA, wandering round her old friend, ‘You seem the same, Amy, yet somehow different.’ AMY, rather complacently, ‘That is just how I feel. But I must not think of myself. They are overhead, Ginevra. There is an awful scene taking place--up there. She is telling father all.’ GINEVRA. ‘Confessing?’ AMY. ‘Everything--in a noble attempt to save me from a widowed marriage.’ GINEVRA. ‘But I thought she was such a hard woman.’ AMY. ‘Not really. To the world perhaps; but I have softened her. All she needed, Ginevra, to bring out her finer qualities was a strong nature to lean upon; and she says that she has found it in me. At the theatre and all the way home--’ GINEVRA. ‘Then you did go to the theatre. Why?’ AMY, feeling that Ginevra is very young, ‘Need you ask? Oh, Ginevra, to see if we could find a happy ending. It was mother’s idea.’ GINEVRA. ‘Which theatre?’ AMY. ‘I don’t know, but the erring wife confessed all--in one of those mousselines de soie that are so fashionable this year; and mother and I sat--clasping each other’s hands, praying it might end happily, though we didn’t see how it could.’ GINEVRA. ‘How awful for you. What did the husband do?’ AMY. ‘He was very calm and white. He went out of the room for a moment, and came back so white. Then he sat down by the fire, and nodded his head three times.’ GINEVRA. ‘I think I know now which theatre it was.’ AMY. ‘He asked her coldly--but always the perfect gentleman----’ GINEVRA. ‘Oh, that theatre.’ AMY. ‘He asked her whether _he_ was to go or she.’ GINEVRA. ‘They must part?’ AMY. ‘Yes. She went on her knees to him, and said “Are we never to meet again?” and he replied huskily “Never.” Then she turned and went slowly towards the door.’ GINEVRA, clutching her, ‘Amy, was that the end?’ AMY. ‘The audience sat still as death, listening for the awful _click_ that brings the curtain down.’ GINEVRA, shivering, ‘I seem to hear it.’ AMY. ‘At that moment--’ GINEVRA. ‘Yes, yes?’ AMY. ‘The door opened, and, Ginevra, their little child--came in--in her night-gown.’ GINEVRA. ‘Quick.’ AMY. ‘She came toddling down the stairs--she was barefooted--she took in the whole situation at a glance--and, running to her father, she said, “Daddy, if mother goes away what is to become of me?”’ Amy gulps and continues: ‘And then she took a hand of each and drew them together till they fell on each other’s breasts, and then--Oh, Ginevra, then--Click!--and the curtain fell.’ GINEVRA, when they are more composed, ‘How old was the child?’ AMY. ‘Five. She looked more.’ GINEVRA, her brows knitted, ‘Molly is under two, isn’t she?’ AMY. ‘She is not quite twenty months.’ GINEVRA. ‘She couldn’t possibly do it.’