ROYCE (_doubtfully_). Shall I read it, sir? BLAYDS (_smiling_). The usual thing? ROYCE (_smiling too_). Pretty much. A little better than usual, I hope, because I wrote it. (_WILLIAM is now at the writing-table, waiting hopefully for crumbs._) BLAYDS (_holding out his hand_). Give it to me. And sit down, please. Near me. I don’t hear too well. (_He takes the book and glances at it._) Pretty. (_He glances at some of the names and says, with a pleased smile_) I didn’t think they took any interest in an old man. Isobel, you will read it to me afterwards, and tell me who they all are? ISOBEL. Yes, dear. BLAYDS. Will that do, Mr. Royce? ROYCE. Of course, sir.... I should just like you to know, to have the privilege of telling you here, and on this day, that every one of us there has a very real admiration for your work and a very real reverence for yourself. And we feel that, in signing, we have done honour to ourselves, rather than honour to Blayds, whom no words of ours can honour as his own have done. BLAYDS. Thank you.... You must read it to me, Isobel. (_He gives her the book._) A very real admiration for _all_ my work, Mr. Royce? ROYCE. Yes, sir. BLAYDS. Except the 1863 volume? ROYCE. I have never regretted that, sir. BLAYDS (_pleased_). Ah! You hear, Isobel? ROYCE. I don’t say that it is my own favourite, but I could quite understand if it were the author’s. There are things about it—— BLAYDS. Isobel, are you listening? ISOBEL (_smiling_). Yes, Father. ROYCE. Things outside your usual range, if I may say so—— BLAYDS (_nodding and chuckling_). You hear, Isobel? Didn’t I always tell you? Well, well, we mustn’t talk any more about that.... William! WILLIAM (_jumping up_). Sir? BLAYDS. What are you doing? WILLIAM. Just finishing off a few letters, sir. BLAYDS. Would you be good enough to bring me my Sordello? WILLIAM. The one which Browning gave you, sir? BLAYDS. Of course. I wish to show Mr. Royce the inscription—(_to ROYCE_)—an absurd one, all rhymes to Blayds. It will be in the library somewhere; it may have got moved. WILLIAM. Certainly, sir. ISOBEL. Father—— BLAYDS (_holding up a hand to stop her_). Thank you, William. (_William goes out._) You were saying, Isobel? ISOBEL. Nothing. I thought it was in your bedroom. I was reading to you last night. BLAYDS (_sharply_). Of course it’s in my bedroom. But can’t I get my own son-in-law out of the room if I want to? ISOBEL (_soothingly_). Of course, dear. It was silly of me. BLAYDS. My son-in-law, Mr. Royce, meditates after my death a little book called “Blaydsiana.” He hasn’t said so, but I see it written all over him. In addition, you understand, to the official life in two volumes. There may be another one called “On the Track of Blayds in the Cotswolds,” but I am not certain of this yet. (_He chuckles to himself._) ISOBEL (_reproachfully_). Father! BLAYDS (_apologetically_). All right, Isobel. Mr. Royce won’t mind.