SCENE

The same.

Time.—The next morning.

The door opens. Dr. Freemantle enters, shown in by Bennet, who follows him.

DR. FREEMANTLE [talking as he enters]. Wonderful! Wonderful! I don’t really think I ever remember so fine a spring.

BENNET [he is making up the fire]. I’m afraid we shall have to pay for it later on.

DR. FREEMANTLE. I expect so. Law of the universe, you know, Bennet—law of the universe. Everything in this world has got to be paid for.

BENNET. Except trouble. [The doctor laughs.] The Times? [He hands it to him.]

DR. FREEMANTLE. Thanks. Thanks. [Seats himself.] Won’t be long—his lordship, will he?

BENNET. I don’t think so. I told him you would be here about eleven.

DR. FREEMANTLE. Um—what do you think of her?

BENNET. Of—of her ladyship?

DR. FREEMANTLE. What’s she like?

BENNET. [They have sunk their voices.] Well, it might have been worse.

DR. FREEMANTLE. Ah! There’s always that consolation, isn’t there?

BENNET. I think her ladyship—with management—may turn out very satisfactory.

DR. FREEMANTLE. You like her?

BENNET. At present, I must say for her, she appears willing to be taught.

DR. FREEMANTLE. And you think it will last?

BENNET. I think her ladyship appreciates the peculiarity of her position. I will tell the Miss Wetherells you are here.

DR. FREEMANTLE. Ah, thanks!

BENNET. I fancy her ladyship will not herself be visible much before lunch time. I understand she woke this morning with a headache. [He goes out.]

The Doctor reads a moment. Then the door of the dressing-room opens, and Fanny enters. Her dress is a wonderful contrast to her costume of last evening. It might be that of a poor and demure nursery governess. Her hair is dressed in keeping. She hardly seems the same woman.

FANNY [seeing the Doctor, she pauses]. Oh!

DR. FREEMANTLE [rises]. I beg pardon, have I the pleasure of seeing Lady Bantock?

FANNY. Yes.

DR. FREEMANTLE. Delighted. May I introduce myself—Dr. Freemantle? I helped your husband into the world.

FANNY. Yes. I’ve heard of you. You don’t mind my closing this door, do you? [Her very voice and manner are changed.]

DR. FREEMANTLE [a little puzzled]. Not at all.

FANNY [she closes the door and returns]. Won’t—won’t you be seated?

DR. FREEMANTLE. Thanks. [They both sit.] How’s the headache?

FANNY. Oh, it’s better.

DR. FREEMANTLE. Ah! [A silence.] Forgive me—I’m an old friend of the family. You’re not a bit what I expected.

FANNY. But you like it? I mean you think this—[with a gesture]—is all right?

DR. FREEMANTLE. My dear young lady, it’s charming. You couldn’t be anything else.

FANNY. Thank you.

DR. FREEMANTLE. I merely meant that—well, I was not expecting anything so delightfully demure.

FANNY. That’s the idea—“seemly.” The Lady Bantocks have always been “seemly”? [She puts it as a question.]

DR. FREEMANTLE [more and more puzzled]. Yes—oh, yes. They have always been—[His eye catches that of Constance, first Lady Bantock, looking down at him from above the chimney-piece. His tone changes.] Well, yes, in their way, you know.

FANNY. You see, I’m in the difficult position of following her late ladyship. She appears to have been exceptionally “seemly.” This is her frock. I mean it was her frock.

DR. FREEMANTLE. God bless my soul! You are not dressing yourself up in her late ladyship’s clothes? The dear good woman has been dead and buried these twenty years.

FANNY [she looks at her dress]. Yes, it struck me as being about that period.

DR. FREEMANTLE [he goes across to her]. What’s the trouble? Too much Bennet?

FANNY [she looks up. There is a suspicion of a smile]. One might say—sufficient?

DR. FREEMANTLE [laughs]. Excellent servants. If they’d only remember it. [He glances round—sinks his voice.] Take my advice. Put your foot down—before it’s too late.

FANNY. Sit down, please. [She makes room for him on the settee.] Because I’m going to be confidential. You don’t mind, do you?

DR. FREEMANTLE [seating himself]. My dear, I take it as the greatest compliment I have had paid to me for years.

FANNY. You put everything so nicely. I’m two persons. I’m an angel—perhaps that is too strong a word?

DR. FREEMANTLE [doubtfully]. Well—

FANNY. We’ll say saint. Or else I’m—the other thing.

DR. FREEMANTLE. Do you know, I think you could be.

FANNY. It’s not a question about which there is any doubt.

DR. FREEMANTLE. Of course, in this case, a little bit of the devil—

FANNY [she shakes her head]. There’s such a lot of mine. It has always hampered me, never being able to hit the happy medium.

DR. FREEMANTLE. It is awkward.

FANNY. I thought I would go on being an angel—

DR. FREEMANTLE. Saint.

FANNY. Saint—till—well, till it became physically impossible to be a saint any longer.

DR. FREEMANTLE. And then?

FANNY [she rises, turns to him with a gesture of half-comic, half-tragic despair]. Well, then I can’t help it, can I?

DR. FREEMANTLE. I think you’re making a mistake. An explosion will undoubtedly have to take place. That being so, the sooner it takes place the better. [He rises.] What are you afraid of?

FANNY [she changes her tone—the talk becomes serious]. You’ve known Vernon all his life?

DR. FREEMANTLE. No one better.

FANNY. Tell me. I’ve known him only as a lover. What sort of a man is he?

A pause. They are looking straight into each other’s eyes.

DR. FREEMANTLE. A man it pays to be perfectly frank with.

FANNY. It’s a very old family, isn’t it?

DR. FREEMANTLE. Old! Good Lord no! First Lord Bantock was only Vernon’s great-grandfather. That is the woman that did it all. [He is looking at the Hoppner.]

FANNY. How do you mean?

DR. FREEMANTLE. Got them their title. Made the name of Bantock of importance in the history of the Georges. Clever woman.

FANNY [leaning over a chair, she is staring into the eyes of the first Lady Bantock]. I wonder what she would have done if she had ever got herself into a really first-class muddle?

DR. FREEMANTLE. One thing’s certain. [Fanny turns to him.] She’d have got out of it.

FANNY [addresses the portrait]. I do wish you could talk.

Vernon bursts into the room. He has been riding. He throws aside his hat and stick.

VERNON. Hulloa! This is good of you. [He shakes hands with the Doctor.] How are you? [Without waiting for any reply, he goes to Fanny, kisses her.] Good morning, dear. How have you been getting on together, you two? Has she been talking to you?

DR. FREEMANTLE. Oh, yes.

VERNON. Doesn’t she talk well? I say, what have you been doing to yourself?

FANNY. Jane thought this style—[with a gesture]—more appropriate to Lady Bantock.

VERNON. Um! Wonder if she’s right? [To the Doctor] What do you think?

DR. FREEMANTLE. I think it a question solely for Lady Bantock.

VERNON. Of course it is. [To Fanny] You know, you mustn’t let them dictate to you. Dear, good, faithful souls, all of them. But they must understand that you are mistress.

FANNY [she seizes eagerly at the chance]. You might mention it to them, dear. It would come so much better from you.

VERNON. No, you. They will take more notice of you.

FANNY. I’d so much rather you did it. [To Dr. Freemantle] Don’t you think it would come better from him?

DR. FREEMANTLE [laughs]. I’m afraid you’ll have to do it yourself.

VERNON. You see, dear, it might hurt them, coming from me. It would seem like ingratitude. Mrs. Bennet—Why, it wasn’t till I began to ask questions that I grasped the fact that she wasn’t my real mother. As for old Bennet, ever since my father died—well, I hardly know how I could have got on without him. It was Charles Bennet that taught me to ride; I learned my letters sitting on Jane’s lap.

FANNY. Yes. Perhaps I had better do it myself.

VERNON. I’m sure it will be more effective. Of course I shall support you.

FANNY. Thank you. Oh, by the by, dear, I shan’t be able to go with you to-day.

VERNON. Why not?

FANNY. I’ve rather a headache.

VERNON. Oh, I’m so sorry. Oh, all right, we’ll stop at home. I’m not so very keen about it.

FANNY. No, I want you to go, dear. Your aunts are looking forward to it. I shall get over it all the sooner with everybody out of the way.

VERNON. Well, if you really wish it.

The Misses Wetherell steal in. They are dressed for driving. They exchange greetings with the Doctor.

FANNY. You know you promised to obey. [Tickles his nose with a flower.]

VERNON [laughing—to the Doctor]. You see what it is to be married?

DR. FREEMANTLE [laughs]. Very trying.

VERNON [turning to his aunts]. Fanny isn’t coming with us.

THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL [to Fanny]. Oh, my dear!

FANNY. It’s only a headache. [She takes her aside.] I’m rather glad of it. I want an excuse for a little time to myself.

THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. I understand, dear. It’s all been so sudden. [She kisses her—then to the room] She’ll be all the better alone. We three will go on. [She nods and signs to her sister.]

FANNY [kissing the Elder Miss Wetherell]. Don’t you get betting.

THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. Oh no, dear, we never do. It’s just to see the dear horses. [She joins her sister. They whisper.]

VERNON [to the Doctor to whom he has been talking]. Can we give you a lift?

DR. FREEMANTLE. Well, you might as far as the Vicarage. Good-bye, Lady Bantock.

FANNY [shaking hands]. Good-bye, Doctor.

VERNON. Sure you won’t be lonely?

FANNY [laughs]. Think I can’t exist an hour without you? Mr. Conceited!

VERNON [laughs and kisses her]. Come along. [He takes the Doctor and his younger Aunt towards the door.]

THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL [who is following last]. I like you in that frock.

FANNY [laughs]. So glad. It’s Ernest who attends to the fires, isn’t it?

THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. Yes, dear.

FANNY. I wish you’d send him up. [At door—calls after them] Hope you’ll all enjoy yourselves!

VERNON [from the distance]. I shall put you on a fiver.

FANNY. Mind it wins. [She listens a moment—closes door, comes back to desk, and takes a Bradshaw.] Five-six-three—five-six-three. [Finds page.] St. Pancras, eight o’clock. Oh, Lord! Stamford, 10.45. Leave Stamford—[Ernest has entered.] Is that you, Ernest?

ERNEST. Yes.

FANNY. Shut the door. Sure it went off last night, that telegram?

ERNEST. Yes.

FANNY. If he doesn’t catch that eight o’clock, he can’t get here till nearly four. That will be awkward. [To Ernest] What time is it now?

ERNEST [looks at clock]. Twenty past eleven.

FANNY. If he does, he’ll be here about twelve—I believe I’ll go and meet him. Could I get out without being seen?

ERNEST. You’ll have to pass the lodge.

FANNY. Who’s at the lodge now?

ERNEST. Mother.

FANNY. Damn!

Bennet has entered unnoticed and drawn near. At this point from behind, he boxes Ernest’s ears.

ERNEST. Here, steady!

BENNET. On the occasions when your cousin forgets her position, you will remember it and remind her of it. Get out! [Ernest, clumsily as ever, “gets out.”] A sort of person has called who, according to his own account, “happened to be passing this way,” and would like to see you.

FANNY [who has been trying to hide the Bradshaw—with affected surprise.] To see me!

BENNET [drily]. Yes. I thought you would be surprised. He claims to be an old friend of yours—Mr. George Newte.

FANNY [still keeping it up]. George Newte! Of course—ah, yes. Do you mind showing him up?

BENNET. I thought I would let you know he had arrived, in case you might be getting anxious about him. I propose giving him a glass of beer and sending him away again.

FANNY [flares up]. Look here, uncle, you and I have got to understand one another. I may put up with being bullied myself—if I can’t see any help for it—but I’m not going to stand my friends being insulted. You show Mr. Newte up here.

A silence.

BENNET. I shall deem it my duty to inform his lordship of Mr. Newte’s visit.

FANNY. There will be no need to. Mr. Newte, if his arrangements permit, will be staying to dinner.

BENNET. That, we shall see about. [He goes out.]

FANNY [following him to door]. And tell them I shall want the best bedroom got ready in case Mr. Newte is able to stay the night. I’ve done it. [She goes to piano, dashes into the “Merry Widow Waltz,” or some other equally inappropriate but well-known melody, and then there enters Newte, shown in by Bennet. Newte is a cheerful person, attractively dressed in clothes suggestive of a successful bookmaker. He carries a white pot hat and tasselled cane. His gloves are large and bright. He is smoking an enormous cigar.]

BENNET. Mr. Newte.

FANNY [she springs up and greets him. They are evidently good friends]. Hulloa, George!

NEWTE. Hulloa, Fan—I beg your pardon, Lady Bantock. [Laughs.] Was just passing this way—

FANNY [cutting him short]. Yes. So nice of you to call.

NEWTE. I said to myself—[His eye catches Bennet; he stops.] Ah, thanks. [He gives Bennet his hat and stick, but Bennet does not seem satisfied. He has taken from the table a small china tray. This he is holding out to Newte, evidently for Newte to put something in it. But what? Newte is puzzled, he glances at Fanny. The idea strikes him that perhaps it is a tip Bennet is waiting for. It seems odd, but if it be the custom—he puts his hand to his trousers pocket.]

BENNET. The smoking-room is on the ground-floor.

NEWTE. Ah, my cigar. I beg your pardon. I couldn’t understand. [He puts it on the tray—breaks into a laugh.]

BENNET. Thank you. Her ladyship is suffering from a headache. If I might suggest—a little less boisterousness. [He goes out.]

NEWTE [he watches him out]. I say, your Lord Chamberlain’s a bit of a freezer!

FANNY. Yes. Wants hanging out in the sun. How did you manage to get here so early? [She sits.]

NEWTE. Well, your telegram rather upset me. I thought—correct etiquette for me to sit down here, do you think?

FANNY. Don’t ask me. Got enough new tricks of my own to learn. [Laughs.] Should chance it, if I were you.

NEWTE. Such a long time since I was at Court. [He sits.] Yes, I was up at five o’clock this morning.

FANNY [laughs]. Oh, you poor fellow!

NEWTE. Caught the first train to Melton, and came on by cart. What’s the trouble?

FANNY. A good deal. Why didn’t you tell me what I was marrying?

NEWTE. I did. I told you that he was a gentleman; that he—

FANNY. Why didn’t you tell me that he was Lord Bantock? You knew, didn’t you?

NEWTE [begins to see worries ahead]. Can’t object to my putting a cigar in my mouth if I don’t light it—can he?

FANNY. Oh, light it—anything you like that will help you to get along.

NEWTE [bites the end off the cigar and puts it between his teeth. This helps him]. No, I didn’t know—not officially.

FANNY. What do you mean—“not officially”?

NEWTE. He never told me.

FANNY. He never told you anything—for the matter of that. I understood you had found out everything for yourself.

NEWTE. Yes; and one of the things I found out was that he didn’t want you to know. I could see his little game. Wanted to play the Lord Burleigh fake. Well, what was the harm? Didn’t make any difference to you!

FANNY. Didn’t make any difference to me! [Jumps up.] Do you know what I’ve done? Married into a family that keeps twenty-three servants, every blessed one of whom is a near relation of my own. [He sits paralysed. She goes on.] That bald-headed old owl—[with a wave towards the door]—that wanted to send you off with a glass of beer and a flea in your ear—that’s my uncle. The woman that opened the lodge gate for you is my Aunt Amelia. The carroty-headed young man that answered the door to you is my cousin Simeon. He always used to insist on kissing me. I’m expecting him to begin again. My “lady’s” maid is my cousin Jane. That’s why I’m dressed like this! My own clothes have been packed off to the local dressmaker to be made “decent.” Meanwhile, they’ve dug up the family vault to find something for me to go on with. [He has been fumbling in all his pockets for matches. She snatches a box from somewhere and flings it to him.] For Heaven’s sake light it! Then, perhaps, you’ll be able to do something else than stare. I have claret and water—mixed—with my dinner. Uncle pours it out for me. They’ve locked up my cigarettes. Aunt Susannah is coming in to-morrow morning to hear me say my prayers. Doesn’t trust me by myself. Thinks I’ll skip them. She’s the housekeeper here. I’ve got to know them by heart before I go to bed to-night, and now I’ve mislaid them. [She goes to the desk—hunts for them.]

NEWTE [having lighted his eternal cigar, he can begin to think]. But why should they—

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.

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.

NEWTE. Well, what about the boy? Can’t he talk to them?

FANNY. Vernon! They’ve brought him up from a baby—spanked him all round, I expect. Might as well ask a boy to talk to his old schoolmaster. Besides, if he did talk, then it would all come out. As I tell you, it’s bound to come out—and the sooner the better.

NEWTE. It must not come out! It’s too late. If we had told him at the beginning that he was proposing to marry into his own butler’s family—well, it’s an awkward situation—he might have decided to risk it. Or he might have cried off.

FANNY. And a good job if he had.

NEWTE. Now talk sense. You wanted him—you took a fancy to him from the beginning. He’s a nice boy, and there’s something owing to him. [It is his trump card, and he knows it.] Don’t forget that. He’s been busy, explaining to all his friends and relations why they should receive you with open arms: really nice girl, born gentlewoman, good old Church of England family—no objection possible. For you to spring the truth upon him now—well, it doesn’t seem to me quite fair to him.

FANNY. Then am I to live all my life dressed as a charity girl?

NEWTE. You keep your head and things will gradually right themselves. This family of yours—they’ve got some sense, I suppose?

FANNY. Never noticed any sign of it myself.

NEWTE. Maybe you’re not a judge. [Laughs.] They’ll listen to reason. You let me have a talk to them, one of these days; see if I can’t show them—first one and then the other—the advantage of leaving to “better” themselves—with the help of a little ready money. Later on—choosing your proper time—you can break it to him that you have discovered they’re distant connections of yours, a younger branch of the family that you’d forgotten. Give the show time to settle down into a run. Then you can begin to make changes.

FANNY. You’ve a wonderful way with you, George. It always sounds right as you put it—even when one jolly well knows that it isn’t.

NEWTE. Well, it’s always been right for you, old girl, ain’t it?

FANNY. Yes. You’ve been a rattling good friend. [She takes his hands.] Almost wish I’d married you instead. We’d have been more suited to one another.

NEWTE [shakes his head]. Nothing like having your fancy. You’d never have been happy without him. [He releases her.] ’Twas a good engagement, or I’d never have sanctioned it.

FANNY. I suppose it will be the last one you will ever get me. [She has dropped for a moment into a brown study.]

NEWTE [he turns]. I hope so.

FANNY [she throws off her momentary mood with a laugh]. Poor fellow! You never even got your commission.

NEWTE. I’ll take ten per cent. of all your happiness, old girl. So make it as much as you can for my benefit. Good-bye. [He holds out hand.]

FANNY. You’re not going? You’ll stop to lunch?

NEWTE. Not to-day.

FANNY. Do. If you don’t, they’ll think it’s because I was frightened to ask you.

NEWTE. All the better. The more the other party thinks he’s having his way, the easier always to get your own. Your trouble is, you know, that you never had any tact.

FANNY. I hate tact. [Newte laughs.] We could have had such a jolly little lunch together. I’m all alone till the evening. There were ever so many things I wanted to talk to you about.

NEWTE. What?

FANNY. Ah, how can one talk to a man with his watch in his hand? [He puts it away and stands waiting, but she is cross.] I think you’re very disagreeable.

NEWTE. I must really get back to town. I oughtn’t to be away now, only your telegram—

FANNY. I know. I’m an ungrateful little beast! [She crosses and rings bell.] You’ll have a glass of champagne before you go?

NEWTE. Well, I won’t say no to that.

FANNY. How are all the girls?

NEWTE. Oh, chirpy. I’m bringing them over to London. We open at the Palace next week.

FANNY. What did they think of my marriage? Gerty was a bit jealous, wasn’t she?

NEWTE. Well, would have been, if she’d known who he was. [Laughs.]

FANNY. Tell her. Tell her [she draws herself up] I’m Lady Bantock, of Bantock Hall, Rutlandshire. It will make her so mad. [Laughs.]

NEWTE [laughs]. I will.

FANNY. Give them all my love. [Ernest appears in answer to her bell.] Oh, Ernest, tell Bennet—[the eyes and mouth of Ernest open]—to see that Mr. Newte has some refreshment before he leaves. A glass of champagne and—and some caviare. Don’t forget. [Ernest goes out.] Good-bye. You’ll come again?

NEWTE. Whenever you want me—and remember—the watchword is “Tact”!

FANNY. Yes, I’ve got the word all right. [Laughs.] Don’t forget to give my love to the girls.

NEWTE. I won’t. So long! [He goes out.]

Fanny closes the door. Honoria has re-entered from the dressing-room. She looks from the handkerchief still hanging over the keyhole to Fanny.

HONORIA. Your ladyship’s handkerchief?

FANNY. Yes. Such a draught through that keyhole.

HONORIA [takes the handkerchief, hands it to Fanny]. I will tell the housekeeper.

FANNY. Thanks. Maybe you will also mention it to the butler. Possibly also to the—[She suddenly changes.] Honoria. Suppose it had been you—you know, you’re awfully pretty—who had married Lord Bantock, and he had brought you back here, among them all—uncle, aunt, all the lot of them—what would you have done?

HONORIA [she draws herself up]. I should have made it quite plain from the first, that I was mistress, and that they were my servants.

FANNY. You would, you think—

HONORIA [checking her outburst]. But then, dear—you will excuse my speaking plainly—there is a slight difference between the two cases. [She seats herself on the settee. Fanny is standing near the desk.] You see, what we all feel about you, dear, is—that you are—well, hardly a fit wife for his lordship. [Fanny’s hands are itching to box the girl’s ears. To save herself, she grinds out through her teeth the word “Tack!”] Of course, dear, it isn’t altogether your fault.

FANNY. Thanks.

HONORIA. Your mother’s marriage was most unfortunate.

FANNY [her efforts to suppress her feelings are just—but only just—successful.] Need we discuss that?

HONORIA. Well, he was an Irishman, dear, there’s no denying it. [Fanny takes a cushion from a chair—with her back to Honoria, she strangles it. Jane has entered and is listening.] Still, perhaps it is a painful subject. And we hope—all of us—that, with time and patience, we may succeed in eradicating the natural results of your bringing-up.

JANE. Some families, finding themselves in our position, would seek to turn it to their own advantage. We think only of your good.

FANNY. Yes, that’s what I feel—that you are worrying yourselves too much about me. You’re too conscientious, all of you. You, in particular, Jane, because you know you’re not strong. You’ll end up with a nervous breakdown. [Mrs. Bennet has entered. Honoria slips out. Fanny turns to her aunt.] I was just saying how anxious I’m getting about Jane. I don’t like the look of her at all. What she wants is a holiday. Don’t you agree with me?

MRS. BENNET. There will be no holiday, I fear, for any of us, for many a long day.

FANNY. But you must. You must think more of yourselves, you know. You’re not looking well, aunt, at all. What you both want is a month—at the seaside.

MRS. BENNET. Your object is too painfully apparent for the subject to need discussion. True solicitude for us would express itself better in greater watchfulness upon your own behaviour.

FANNY. Why, what have I done?

Bennet enters, followed, unwillingly, by Ernest.

MRS. BENNET. Your uncle will explain.

BENNET. Shut that door. [Ernest does so. They group round Bennet—Ernest a little behind. Fanny remains near the desk.] Sit down. [Fanny, bewildered, speechless, sits.] Carry your mind back, please, to the moment when, with the Bradshaw in front of you, you were considering, with the help of your cousin Ernest, the possibility of your slipping out unobserved, to meet and commune with a person you had surreptitiously summoned to visit you during your husband’s absence.

FANNY. While I think of it, did he have anything to eat before he went? I told Ernest to—ask you to see that he had a glass of champagne and a—

BENNET [waves her back into silence]. Mr. Newte was given refreshment suitable to his station. [She goes to interrupt. Again he waves her back.] We are speaking of more important matters. Your cousin reminded you that you would have to pass the lodge, occupied by your Aunt Amelia. I state the case correctly?

FANNY. Beautifully!

BENNET. I said nothing at the time, doubting the evidence of my own ears. The boy, however—where is the boy?—[Ernest is pushed forward]—has admitted—reluctantly—that he also heard it. [A pause. The solemnity deepens.] You made use of an expression—

FANNY. Oh, cut it short. I said “damn.” [A shudder passes.] I’m sorry to have frightened you, but if you knew a little more of really good society, you would know that ladies—quite slap-up ladies—when they’re excited, do—.

MRS. BENNET [interrupting with almost a scream]. She defends it!

BENNET. You will allow me to be the judge of what a lady says, even when she is excited. As for this man, Newte—

FANNY. The best friend you ever had. [She is “up” again.] You thank your stars, all of you, and tell the others, too, the whole blessed twenty-three of you—you thank your stars that I did “surreptitiously” beg and pray him to run down by the first train and have a talk with me; and that Providence was kind enough to you to enable him to come. It’s a very different tune you’d have been singing at this moment—all of you—if he hadn’t. I can tell you that.

MRS. BENNET. And pray, what tune should we have been singing if Providence hadn’t been so thoughtful of us?

FANNY [she is about to answer, then checks herself, and sits again]. You take care you don’t find out. There’s time yet.

MRS. BENNET. We had better leave her.

BENNET. Threats, my good girl, will not help you.

MRS. BENNET [with a laugh]. She’s in too tight a corner for that.

BENNET. A contrite heart is what your aunt and I desire to see. [He takes from his pocket a small book, places it open on the desk.] I have marked one or two passages, on pages 93–7. We will discuss them together—later in the day.

They troop out in silence, the key turns in the lock.

FANNY [takes up the book—turns to the cover, reads]. “The Sinner’s Manual.” [She turns to page 93.]

[CURTAIN]