Trebell. Very well then ... let the meaning of them go. Look forward simply to a troublesome illness. In a little while you can go abroad quietly and wait patiently. We're not fools and we needn't find fools to trust in. Then come back to England....
Amy. And forget. That seems simple enough, doesn't it?
Trebell. If you don't want the child let it be mine ... not yours.
Amy. [Wondering suddenly at this bond between them.] Yours! What would you do with it?
Trebell. [Matter-of-fact.] Provide for it, of course.
Amy. Never see it, perhaps.
Trebell. Perhaps not. If there were anything to be gained ... for the child. I'll see that he has his chance as a human being.
Amy. How hopeful! [Now her voice drops. She is looking back, perhaps at a past self.] If you loved me ... perhaps I might learn to love the thought of your child.
Trebell. [As if half his life depended on her answer.] Is that true?
Amy. [Irritably.] Why are you picking me to pieces? I think that is true. If you had been loving me for a long, long time—[The agony rushes back on her.] But now I'm only afraid. You might have some pity for me ... I'm so afraid.