FANNY [_she leans across_, _puts her hand on his_]. You’re a dear, good fellow, George—always have been. I wouldn’t plague you only it is absolutely necessary I should know—exactly what you did tell him. NEWTE [_a little sulkily_]. I told him that your uncle was a bishop. FANNY [_sits back—staring at him_]. A what? NEWTE. A bishop. Bishop of Waiapu, New Zealand. FANNY. Why New Zealand? NEWTE. Why not? Had to be somewhere. Didn’t want him Archbishop of Canterbury, did you? FANNY. Did he believe it? NEWTE. Shouldn’t have told him had there been any fear that he wouldn’t. FANNY. I see. Any other swell relations of mine knocking about? NEWTE. One—a judge of the Supreme Court in Ohio. Same name, anyhow, O’Gorman. Thought I’d make him a cousin of yours. I’ve always remembered him. Met him when I was over there in ninety-eight—damn him! _A silence_. FANNY [_she rises_]. Well, nothing else for it! Got to tell him it was all a pack of lies. Not blaming you, old boy—my fault. Didn’t know he was going to ask any questions, or I’d have told him myself. Bit of bad luck, that’s all. NEWTE. Why must you tell him? Only upset him. FANNY. It’s either my telling him or leaving it for them to do. You know me, George. How long do you see me being bossed and bullied by my own servants? Besides, it’s bound to come out in any case. NEWTE [_he rises_. _Kindly but firmly he puts her back into her chair_. _Then pacing to and fro with his hands mostly in his trousers pockets_, _he talks_]. Now, you listen to me, old girl. I’ve been your business manager ever since you started in. I’ve never made a mistake before—[_he turns and faces her_]—and I haven’t made one this time. FANNY. I don’t really see the smartness, George, stuffing him up with a lot of lies he can find out for himself. NEWTE. _If he wants to_. A couple of telegrams, one to His Grace the Bishop of Waiapu, the other to Judge Denis O’Gorman, Columbus, Ohio, would have brought him back the information that neither gentlemen had ever heard of you. _If he hadn’t been careful not to send them_. He wasn’t marrying you with the idea of strengthening his family connections. He was marrying you because he was just gone on you. Couldn’t help himself. FANNY. In that case, you might just as well have told him the truth. NEWTE. _Which he would then have had to pass on to everyone entitled to ask questions_. Can’t you understand? Somebody, in the interest of everybody, had to tell a lie. Well, what’s a business manager for? FANNY. But I can’t do it, George. You don’t know them. The longer I give in to them the worse they’ll get. NEWTE. Can’t you square them? FANNY. No, that’s the trouble. They _are_ honest. They’re the “faithful retainers” out of a melodrama. They are working eighteen hours a day on me not for any advantage to themselves, but because they think it their “duty” to the family. They don’t seem to have any use for themselves at all.