SEPTIMA. No, one doesn’t.... OLIVER (_after a pause_). You know there’s a lot of rot talked about death. SEPTIMA. A lot of rot talked about everything. OLIVER. Here was Oliver Blayds—the greatest man of his day—seen everything, known everybody, ninety years old, honoured by all—and then he goes out. Well! SEPTIMA. Nothing is here for tears, in fact. OLIVER. Not only nothing for tears, but everything for rejoicings. I don’t understand these religious people. They’re quite certain that there’s an after life, and that this life is only a preparation for it—like a cold bath in the morning to the rest of the day. And yet they are always the people who make the most fuss, and cover themselves with black, and say, “Poor Grandfather!” ever after. Why poor? He is richer than ever according to them. SEPTIMA. Can’t you _see_ Oliver Blayds in Heaven enjoying it all? What poetry he would make of it! OLIVER. “A Child’s Thoughts on Waking”—eh? I’ve laughed at it, and loathed it, but it was the real stuff, you know. What’s the text—“Except ye be born again as a little child, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of Heaven”—is that right? _His_ thoughts—on waking in Heaven. SEPTIMA (_thoughtfully_). Septima Blayds-Conway. It’s rather a thing to be, you know. OLIVER. I used to think once that, when the old boy died, I’d chuck the Blayds and just be plain Oliver Conway. I’m beginning to think I was wrong.... Oliver Blayds-Conway. SEPTIMA. The well-known statesman. Sorry—I mean engineer. OLIVER. Well, I wonder about that. SEPTIMA. What sort of wondering? OLIVER. Things will be a bit different now. I’m the only genuine Blayds left—— SEPTIMA. Oh, indeed! OLIVER. You know what I mean—male Blayds. And it’s rather up to me not to let the old man down. Oliver Blayds-Conway, M.P. There’s something in it, you know. I was thinking about it in the church. Or should I drop the Conway and just be Blayds? Or Conway Blayds and drop the Oliver? It’s a bit of a problem. SEPTIMA. I shall keep the Blayds when I marry. Drop the Conway, of course. OLIVER. It’s a dirty game, politics, but that’s all the more reason why there should be some really good people in it. Irreproachable people, I mean. Conway Blayds.... (_And the Duke of Devonshire, and so forth_). SEPTIMA (_after a pause_). I wonder what Aunt Isobel wants to talk to us all about. OLIVER. The old man’s last dying instructions or something. I was rather hoping to get down to the Oval. I’ve got the day off. Bit of a change to go to the Oval when you really _have_ buried your grandfather. But perhaps I ought to be careful if I’m going in seriously for politics. SEPTIMA. Noll, have you realised that it’s all going to be rather interesting now? OLIVER. Of course it is. But why particularly? SEPTIMA. Father. OLIVER. You mean he’s lost his job. SEPTIMA. Yes. It’s terribly exciting when your father’s out of work. OLIVER. He’ll have more work than ever. He’ll write Blayds’ life. That’ll take him years.