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? 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.