'Listen to the infant.' ALICE. 'Isn't it horrid of Robert to get on with her so well. Steve, say Robert's a brute.' STEVE, as he bids her good afternoon, 'Of course he is; a selfish beast.' ALICE. 'There's another kiss to you for saying so.' The doomed woman presents her cheek again. STEVE. 'And you'll come to me after dinner to-night, Alice? Here, I'll leave my card, I'm not half a mile from this street.' ALICE. 'I mayn't be able to get away. It will depend on whether my silly husband wants to stay with his wretch of a baby. I'll see you to the door. Steve, you're _much_ nicer than Robert.' With these dreadful words she and the libertine go. Amy and Ginevra emerge white to the lips; or, at least, they feel as white as that. AMY, clinging to the screen for support, 'He kissed her.' GINEVRA, sternly, 'He called her Alice.' AMY. 'She is going to his house to-night. An assignation.' GINEVRA. 'They will be chambers, Amy--they are always chambers. And after dinner, he said--so he's stingy, too. Here is his card: "Mr. Stephen Rollo.'" AMY. 'I have heard of him. They said he was a nice man.' GINEVRA. 'The address is Kensington West. That's the new name for West Kensington.' AMY. 'My poor father. It would kill him.' GINEVRA, the master mind, 'He must never know.' AMY. 'Ginevra, what's to be done?' GINEVRA. 'Thank heaven, we know exactly what to do. It rests with you to save her.' AMY, trembling, 'You mean I must go--to his chambers?' GINEVRA, firmly, 'At any cost.' AMY. 'Evening dress?'