Amy decides to humour him so far. She would like to sit in the lovely stage way, when they know so precisely where the chair is that they can sit without a glance at it. But she dare not, though Ginevra would have risked it. Steve is emboldened to say: 'By the way, you have not told me _your_ name.' AMY, nervously, 'If you please, do you mind my not telling it?' 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,