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.