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?’