STEVE, gratified, ‘Married?’
AMY. ‘How can you play with me so, sir? She is my mother.’
STEVE. ‘Your mother? Fond of me!’
AMY. ‘How dare you look pleased.’
STEVE. ‘I’m not—I didn’t mean to. I say, I wish you would tell me who you are.’
AMY. ‘As if you didn’t know.’
STEVE, in a dream, ‘Fond of me! I can’t believe it.’ Rather wistfully: ‘How could she be?’
AMY. ‘It was all your fault. Such men as you—pitiless men—you made her love you.’
STEVE, still elated, ‘Do you think I am that kind of man?’
AMY. ‘Oh, sir, let her go. You are strong and she is weak. Think of her poor husband, and give me back the letters.’