VERNON. You mean poor Rose Bennet’s daughter—the one who ran away and married an organ-grinder.
FANNY. An organ-grinder?
VERNON. Something of that sort—yes. They had her over; did all they could. A crazy sort of girl; used to sing French ballads on the village green to all the farm labourers she could collect. Shortened poor Bennet’s life by about ten years. [Laughs.] But why? Not going to bully me for not having fallen in love with her, are you? Because that really wasn’t my fault. I never even saw her. ’Twas the winter we spent in Rome. She bolted before we got back. Never gave me a chance.
FANNY. I accept the excuse. [Laughs.] No, I was merely wondering what the “County” would have done if by any chance you had married her. Couldn’t have said you were marrying into your own kitchen in her case, because she was never in your kitchen—absolutely refused to enter it, I’m told.
VERNON [laughs]. It would have been a “nice point,” as they say in legal circles. If people had liked her, they’d have tried to forget that her cousins had ever been scullery-maids. If not, they’d have taken good care that nobody did.
Bennet enters. He brings some cut flowers, with the “placing” of which he occupies himself.
BENNET. I did not know your lordship had returned.
VERNON. Found a telegram waiting for me in the village. What’s become of that niece of yours, Bennet—your sister Rose’s daughter, who was here for a short time and ran away again? Ever hear anything about her?
BENNET [very quietly he turns, lets his eyes for a moment meet Fanny’s. Then answers as he crosses to the windows]. The last I heard about her was that she was married.
VERNON. Satisfactorily?