ISOBEL. Yes, I knew you felt like that. But I couldn’t leave him. (_ROYCE shrugs his shoulders unconvinced._) Oh, I _did_ love you then; I _did_ want to marry you! But I couldn’t. He wasn’t just an ordinary man—you must remember that, please. He was Blayds.... Oh, what are we in the world for but to find beauty, and who could find it as he, and who could help him as I? ROYCE. I was ready to wait. ISOBEL. Ah, but how could we? Until he died! Every day you would be thinking, “I wonder how he is to-day,” and I should be knowing that you were thinking that. Oh, horrible! Sitting and waiting for his death. ROYCE (_thoughtfully, recognising her point of view_). Yes.... Yes.... But if you were back now, knowing what you know, would you do it again? ISOBEL. I think so. I think it has been worth it. It isn’t fair to ask me. I’m glad now that I have given him those eighteen years, but perhaps I should have been afraid of it if I had known it was to be as long as that. It has been trying, of course—such a very old man in body, although so young in mind—but it has not been for an old man that I have done it; not for a selfish father; but for the glorious young poet who has never grown up, and who wanted me. ROYCE (_looking into her soul_). But you have had your bad moments. ISOBEL (_distressed_). Oh, don’t! It isn’t fair. (_ROYCE, his eyes still on her, begins the refrain again._) ISOBEL (_smiling sadly_). Oh, no, Mr. Royce! That’s all over. I’m an old woman now. ROYCE (_rather ashamed_). I’m sorry.... Yes, you’re older now. ISOBEL. Twenty and thirty-eight—there’s a world of difference between them. ROYCE. I’m forty. ISOBEL (_smiling_). Don’t ask me to pity you. What’s forty to a man? ROYCE. You’re right. In fact I’m masquerading here to-day as one of the younger writers. ISOBEL (_glad to be off the subject of herself_). Father likes to feel that he is admired by the younger writers. So if you’ve brought all their signatures with you, he’ll be pleased to see you, Mr. Royce. I had better give you just one word of warning. Don’t be too hard on the 1863 volume. ROYCE. I shan’t even mention it. ISOBEL. But if _he_ does——? It has been attacked so much that he has a sort of mother-love for it now, and even I feel protective towards it, and want to say, “Come here, darling, nobody loves you.” Say something kind if you can. Of course I know it isn’t his best, but when you’ve been praised as much as he, the little praise which is withheld is always the praise you want the most. ROYCE. How delightfully human that sounds. That is just what I’ve always felt in my own small way. _WILLIAM comes fussily in._ WILLIAM. Is Mr. Royce——? Ah, there you are! (_Looking round the room_) You’ve done the flowers, Isobel? That’s right. Well, Mr. Royce, I hope they’ve been looking after you properly. ROYCE. Oh, yes, thanks. WILLIAM. That’s right. Isobel—(_he looks, in a statesmanlike way, at his watch_)—in five minutes, shall we say? ISOBEL. Yes.