Fanny.  I dont mean morally innocent:  everybody who reads your articles knows youre as innocent as a lamb.

Trotter.  What!

Fanny.  Yes, Mr Trotter:  Ive seen a good deal of life since I came to England; and I assure you that to me youre a mere baby:  a dear, good, well-meaning, delightful, witty, charming baby; but still just a wee lamb in a world of wolves.  Cambridge is not what it was in my father’s time.

Trotter.  Well, I must say!

Fanny.  Just so.  Thats one of our classifications in the Cambridge
Fabian Society.

Trotter.  Classifications?  I dont understand.

Fanny.  We classify our aunts into different sorts.  And one of the sorts is the “I must says.”

Trotter.  I withdraw “I must say.”  I substitute “Blame my cats!” No:  I substitute “Blame my kittens!” Observe, Miss O’Dowda:  kittens.  I say again in the teeth of the whole Cambridge Fabian Society, kittens.  Impertinent little kittens.  Blame them.  Smack them.  I guess what is on your conscience.  This play to which you have lured me is one of those in which members of Fabian Societies instruct their grandmothers in the art of milking ducks.  And you are afraid it will shock your father.  Well, I hope it will.  And if he consults me about it I shall recommend him to smack you soundly and pack you off to bed.

Fanny.  Thats one of your prettiest literary attitudes, Mr Trotter; but it doesnt take me in.  You see, I’m much more conscious of what you really are than you are yourself, because weve discussed you thoroughly at Cambridge; and youve never discussed yourself, have you?

Trotter.  I—­

Fanny.  Of course you havnt; so you see it’s no good Trottering at me.

Trotter.  Trottering!

Fanny.  Thats what we call it at Cambridge.

Trotter.  If it were not so obviously a stage cliche, I should say Damn Cambridge.  As it is, I blame my kittens.  And now let me warn you.  If youre going to be a charming healthy young English girl, you may coax me.  If youre going to be an unsexed Cambridge Fabian virago, I’ll treat you as my intellectual equal, as I would treat a man.

Fanny. [adoringly] But how few men are your intellectual equals,
Mr Trotter!

Trotter.  I’m getting the worst of this.

Fanny.  Oh no.  Why do you say that?

Trotter.  May I remind you that the dinner-bell will ring presently?

Fanny.  What does it matter?  We’re both ready.  I havnt told you yet what I want you to do for me.

Trotter.  Nor have you particularly predisposed me to do it, except out of pure magnanimity.  What is it?