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.'