You mean poor Rose Bennet's daughter--the one who ran away
and married an organ-grinder.
FANNY. An organ-grinder?
VERNON. Something of that sort--yes. They had her over; did all
they could. A crazy sort of girl; used to sing French ballads on the
village green to all the farm labourers she could collect. Shortened
poor Bennet's life by about ten years. [Laughs.] But why? Not
going to bully me for not having fallen in love with her, are you?
Because that really WASN'T my fault. I never even saw her. 'Twas
the winter we spent in Rome. She bolted before we got back. Never
gave me a chance.
FANNY. I accept the excuse. [Laughs.] No, I was merely wondering
what the "County" would have done if by any chance you had married
HER. Couldn't have said you were marrying into your own kitchen in
her case, because she was never IN your kitchen--absolutely refused
to enter it, I'm told.
VERNON [laughs]. It would have been a "nice point," as they say in
legal circles. If people had liked her, they'd have tried to forget
that her cousins had ever been scullery-maids. If not, they'd have
taken good care that nobody did.
Bennet enters. He brings some cut flowers, with the "placing" of
which he occupies himself.
BENNET. I did not know your lordship had returned.
VERNON. Found a telegram waiting for me in the village. What's
become of that niece of yours, Bennet--your sister Rose's daughter,
who was here for a short time and ran away again? Ever hear anything
about her?
BENNET [very quietly he turns, lets his eyes for a moment meet
Fanny's.
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