WILLIAM. How is he just now? ISOBEL. He seems better to-day. WILLIAM. That’s right. We shall drink the health in here. ISOBEL. Very well. [_She goes out._ WILLIAM. A little custom we have, Mr. Royce. ROYCE. Oh, yes. WILLIAM. We shall all wish him many happy returns of the day—you understand that he isn’t dressed now until the afternoon—and then I shall present you. After that, we shall all drink the health—you will join us, of course. ROYCE (_smiling_). Certainly. WILLIAM. Then, of course, it depends how we are feeling. We may feel in the mood for a little talk, or we may be too tired for anything more than a few words of greeting. You have the Address with you? ROYCE. Yes. (_Looking about him_) At least I put it down somewhere. WILLIAM (_scandalised_). You put it down—somewhere! My dear Mr. Royce (_he searches anxiously_)—at any moment now—— (_He looks at his watch._) Perhaps I’d better—— (_A Maid comes in with the port and glasses_) Parsons, have you seen a—— (_He makes vague rectangular shapes with his hands._) ROYCE. Here it is. WILLIAM. Ah, that’s right. (_As the Maid puts the tray down_) Yes, there, I think, Parsons. How many glasses have you brought? PARSONS. Seven, sir. WILLIAM. There should be six. One—two—three—— PARSONS (_firmly_). Madam said seven, sir. WILLIAM. Seven, yes, that’s right. When I ring the bell, you’ll tell Miss Isobel that we are ready. PARSONS. Yes, sir. (_She goes out, making way for MARION, SEPTIMA, and OLIVER as she does so._) WILLIAM. Ah, that’s right. Now then, let me see.... I think—— Marion, will you sit here? Septima, you there. Oliver—Oliver, that’s a very light suit you’re wearing. OLIVER. It’s a birthday, Father, not a funeral. WILLIAM (_with dignity_). Yes, but whose birthday? Well, it’s too late now—you sit there. Mr. Royce, you sit next to me, so that I can take you up. Now are we all ready? SEPTIMA (_wickedly_). Wait a moment. (_She blows her nose_) Right. WILLIAM. All ready? (_He rings the bell with an air._) (_There is a solemn silence of expectation. Then OLIVER shifts a leg and catches his ankle against SEPTIMA’S chair._) OLIVER. Damn! Oo! (_He rubs his ankle._) WILLIAM (_in church_). S’sh! (_There is another solemn silence, and then the Maid opens the door. BLAYDS, in an invalid chair, is wheeled in by ISOBEL. They all stand up. With his long white beard, his still plentiful white hair curling over his ears, OLIVER BLAYDS does indeed “look like somebody.” Only his eyes, under their shaggy brows, are still young. Indomitable spirit and humour gleam in them. With all the dignity, majesty even, which he brings to the part, you feel that he realises what great fun it is being OLIVER BLAYDS._) BLAYDS. Good-day to you all. MARION (_going forward and kissing his forehead_). Many happy returns of the day, Father. BLAYDS. Thank you, Marion. Happy, I hope; many, I neither expect nor want.