FANNY. I didn’t say “them.” I said “_one_ of them.” There’s Honoria. She’s pretty enough, anyhow. So’s Alice, Charles Bennet’s daughter, and Bertha and Grace—all of them beautiful. And what’s even better still—good. [_She says it viciously_.] Didn’t you ever think of them? VERNON. Well [_laughs_]—well, one hardly marries into one’s own kitchen. FANNY. Isn’t that rather snobbish? You say they’re more like friends than servants. They’ve lived with your people, side by side, for three generations, doing their duty, honourably. There’s never been a slur upon their name. They’re “high-principled.” You know it. They’ve better manners than nine-tenths of your smart society, and they’re healthy. What’s wrong with them—even from a lord’s point of view? VERNON [_recovering himself_]. Well, don’t pitch into me about it. It’s your fault if I didn’t marry them—I mean one of them. [_He laughs_, _puts his empty cup back on the table_.] Maybe I’d have thought about it—if I hadn’t met you. FANNY [_takes his hand in hers_]. I wish you hadn’t asked Newte any questions about me. It would have been so nice to feel that you had married me—just because you couldn’t help it—just because I was I and nothing else mattered. VERNON. Let’s forget I ever did. [_He kneels beside her_.] I didn’t do it for my own sake, as you know. A _man_ in my position has to think of other people. His wife has to take her place in society. People insist upon knowing something about her. It’s not enough for the stupid “County” that she’s the cleverest, most bewilderingly beautiful, bewitching lady in the land. FANNY. And how long will you think all that? VERNON. For ever, and ever, and ever. FANNY. Oh, you dear boy. [_She kisses him_.] You don’t know how a woman loves the man she loves to love her. [_Laughs_.] Isn’t that complicated? VERNON. Not at all. We’re just the same. We love to love the woman we love. FANNY. Provided the “County” will let us. And the County has said: A man may not marry his butler’s niece. VERNON [_laughing_]. You’ve got butlers on the brain. If ever I do run away with my own cook or under-housemaid, it will be your doing. FANNY. You haven’t the pluck! The “County” would laugh at you. You men are so frightened of being laughed at. VERNON [_he rises_]. Well, if it saves us from making asses of ourselves— FANNY. Wasn’t there a niece of old Bennet’s, a girl who had been brought up abroad, and who _wasn’t_ a domestic servant—never had been—who stayed with them here, at the gardener’s cottage, for a short time, some few years ago? VERNON. You mean poor Rose Bennet’s daughter—the one who ran away and married an organ-grinder. FANNY. An organ-grinder?