FANNY [with an odd smile]. It went to pieces at the first. I was in trouble all last night; you must have known it. You left me alone.
VERNON. Jane told me you had locked yourself in.
FANNY. You never tried the door for yourself, dear. [She pretends to rearrange something on the mantelpiece—any excuse to turn away her face for a moment. She turns to him again, smiling.] It was a mistake, the whole thing. You were partly to blame. You were such a nice boy. I “fancied” you—to use George’s words. [She laughs.] And when a woman wants a thing, she is apt to be a bit unscrupulous about how she gets it. [She moves about the room, touching the flowers, rearranging a cushion, a vase.] I didn’t invent the bishop; that was George’s embroidery. [Another laugh.] But, of course, I ought to have told you everything myself. I ought not to have wanted a man to whom it would have made one atom of difference whether my cousins were scullery-maids or not. Somehow, I felt that to you it might. [Vernon winces.] It’s natural enough. You have a big position to maintain. I didn’t know you were a lord—that was your doing. George did find it out, but he never told me; least of all, that you were Lord Bantock—or you may be pretty sure I should have come out with the truth, if only for my own sake. It hasn’t been any joke for me, coming back here.
VERNON. Yes. I can see they’ve been making things pretty hard for you.
FANNY. Oh, they thought they were doing their duty. [He is seated. She comes up behind him, puts her hands on his shoulders.] I want you to take them all back again. I want to feel I have made as little commotion in your life as possible. It was just a little mistake. And everybody will say how fortunate it was that she took herself off so soon with that—[She was about to say “that theatrical Johnny,” thinking of Newte. She checks herself.] And you will marry somebody belonging to your own class. And those are the only sensible marriages there are.
VERNON. Have you done talking?
FANNY. Yes! Yes, I think that’s all.
VERNON. Then perhaps you’ll let me get in a word. You think me a snob? [Fanny makes a movement.] As a matter of fact, I am.
FANNY. No, that’s not fair. You wouldn’t have married a girl off the music-hall stage.
VERNON. Niece of a bishop, cousin to a judge. Whether I believed it or not, doesn’t matter. The sham that isn’t likely to be found out is as good as the truth, to a snob. If he had told me your uncle was a butler, I should have hesitated. That’s where the mistake began. We’ll go back to that. Won’t you sit down? [Fanny sits.] I want you to stop. There’ll be no mistake this time. I’m asking my butler’s niece to do me the honour to be my wife.