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.
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