Part 18

NEWTE. I did. I told you that he was a gentleman; that he—

FANNY. Why didn’t you tell me that he was Lord Bantock? You knew, didn’t you?

NEWTE [begins to see worries ahead]. Can’t object to my putting a cigar in my mouth if I don’t light it—can he?

FANNY. Oh, light it—anything you like that will help you to get along.

NEWTE [bites the end off the cigar and puts it between his teeth. This helps him]. No, I didn’t know—not officially.

FANNY. What do you mean—“not officially”?

NEWTE. He never told me.

FANNY. He never told you anything—for the matter of that. I understood you had found out everything for yourself.

NEWTE. Yes; and one of the things I found out was that he didn’t want you to know. I could see his little game. Wanted to play the Lord Burleigh fake. Well, what was the harm? Didn’t make any difference to you!

FANNY. Didn’t make any difference to me! [Jumps up.] Do you know what I’ve done? Married into a family that keeps twenty-three servants, every blessed one of whom is a near relation of my own. [He sits paralysed. She goes on.] That bald-headed old owl—[with a wave towards the door]—that wanted to send you off with a glass of beer and a flea in your ear—that’s my uncle. The woman that opened the lodge gate for you is my Aunt Amelia. The carroty-headed young man that answered the door to you is my cousin Simeon. He always used to insist on kissing me. I’m expecting him to begin again. My “lady’s” maid is my cousin Jane. That’s why I’m dressed like this! My own clothes have been packed off to the local dressmaker to be made “decent.” Meanwhile, they’ve dug up the family vault to find something for me to go on with. [He has been fumbling in all his pockets for matches. She snatches a box from somewhere and flings it to him.] For Heaven’s sake light it! Then, perhaps, you’ll be able to do something else than stare. I have claret and water—mixed—with my dinner. Uncle pours it out for me. They’ve locked up my cigarettes. Aunt Susannah is coming in to-morrow morning to hear me say my prayers. Doesn’t trust me by myself. Thinks I’ll skip them. She’s the housekeeper here. I’ve got to know them by heart before I go to bed to-night, and now I’ve mislaid them. [She goes to the desk—hunts for them.]

NEWTE [having lighted his eternal cigar, he can begin to think]. But why should they—

FANNY [still at desk]. Because they’re that sort. They honestly think they are doing the right and proper thing—that Providence has put it into their hands to turn me out a passable substitute for all a Lady Bantock should be; which, so far as I can understand, is something between the late lamented Queen Victoria and Goody-Two-Shoes. They are the people that I ran away from, the people I’ve told you about, the people I’ve always said I’d rather starve than ever go back to. And here I am, plumped down in the midst of them again—for life! [Honoria Bennet, the “still-room” maid, has entered. She is a pert young minx of about Fanny’s own age.] What is is? What is it?

HONORIA. Merely passing through. Sorry to have excited your ladyship. [Goes into dressing-room.]

FANNY. My cousin Honoria. They’ve sent her up to keep an eye upon me. Little cat! [She takes her handkerchief, drapes it over the keyhole of the dressing-room door.]

NEWTE [at sight of Honoria he has jumped up and hastily hidden his cigar behind him]. What are you going to do?

FANNY [she seats herself and suggests to him the writing-chair]. Hear from you—first of all—exactly what you told Vernon.

NEWTE [sitting]. About you?

FANNY [nods]. About me—and my family.

NEWTE. Well—couldn’t tell him much, of course. Wasn’t much to tell.

FANNY. I want what you did tell.

NEWTE. I told him that your late father was a musician.

FANNY. Yes.

NEWTE. Had been unfortunate. Didn’t go into particulars. Didn’t seem to be any need for it. That your mother had died when you were still only a girl and that you had gone to live with relatives. [He looks for approval.]

FANNY. Yes.

NEWTE. That you hadn’t got on well with them—artistic temperament, all that sort of thing—that, in consequence, you had appealed to your father’s old theatrical friends; and that they—that they, having regard to your talent—and beauty—

FANNY. Thank you.

NEWTE. Had decided that the best thing you could do was to go upon the stage. [He finishes, tolerably well pleased with himself.]

FANNY. That’s all right. Very good indeed. What else?