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?
NEWTE [after an uncomfortable pause]. Well, that's about all I knew.
FANNY. Yes, but what did you TELL him?
NEWTE. Well, of course, I had to tell him something. A man doesn't
marry without knowing just a little about his wife's connections.
Wouldn't be reasonable to expect him. You'd never told me anything--
never would; except that you'd liked to have boiled the lot. What
was I to do? [He is playing with a quill pen he has picked up.]
FANNY [she takes it from him]. What DID you do?
NEWTE [with fine frankness]. I did the best I could for you, old
girl, and he was very nice about it. Said it was better than he'd
expected, and that I'd made him very happy--very happy indeed.
FANNY [she leans across, puts her hand on his].
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