It really was too bad of Fanny.
"Why did you ask them?" Straker had known Fanny so long that he was privileged to inquire.
"Because—they wanted to be asked."
Fanny believed, and said that she believed, in giving people what they wanted. As for the consequences, there was no mortal lapse or aberration that could trouble her serenity or bring a blush to her enduring candor. If you came a cropper you might be sure that Fanny's judgment of you would be pure from the superstition of morality. She herself had never swerved in affection or fidelity to Will Brocklebank. She took her excitements, lawful or otherwise, vicariously in the doomed and dedicated persons of her friends. Brocklebank knew it. Blond, spectacled, middle-aged, and ponderous, he regarded his wife's performances and other people's with a leniency as amazing as her own. He was hovering about old Lady Paignton in the background, where Straker could see his benignant gaze resting on Furnival and Mrs. Viveash.
"Poor dears," said Fanny, as if in extenuation of her tolerance, "they are enjoying themselves."
"So are you," said Straker.
"I like to see other people happy. Don't you?"
"Yes. If I'm not responsible for their—happiness."
"Who is responsible?" She challenged.
"I say, aren't you?"