SEPTIMA. Yes; but, don’t you see, he hasn’t any real standing now. Who is he? Only Blayds’ late secretary. Whose house is this now, do you think? OLIVER. Depends how the old man left it. SEPTIMA. Of course it does. But you can be quite sure he didn’t leave it to father. I think it’s all going to be rather exciting. OLIVER. Well, you won’t be here to see it, my child. SEPTIMA. Why not? OLIVER. I thought you were going to live with that Ferguson girl. SEPTIMA. Not so sure now. There’s no hurry anyway. I think I’ll wait here a bit, and see what happens. It’s all going to be so different. OLIVER. It is. (_He smiles at his thoughts._) SEPTIMA. What? OLIVER (_smiling broadly_). It’s just on the cards that it’s my house now. (_Looking round the room._) I don’t think I shall let father smoke in here. SEPTIMA. What fun that would be!... I hope he’s left Aunt Isobel something. OLIVER. Yes, poor dear, she’s rather in the air, isn’t she? SEPTIMA. It’s funny how little we know _her_. OLIVER. We’ve hardly ever seen her, apart from the old man. I don’t suppose there’s much to know. A born nurse, and that’s all there is to it. SEPTIMA. Perhaps you’re right. OLIVER. I’m sure I am. _WILLIAM and MARION come on._ WILLIAM (_continuing a conversation which has obviously been going on since BLAYDS died_). I say again, Oliver Blayds ought to have been buried in the Abbey. The nation expected it. The nation had the right to it. MARION. Yes, dear, but we couldn’t go against his own wish. His last wish. WILLIAM. If it was his wish, why did he not express it to me? MARION. He told Isobel, dear. WILLIAM. So we are to believe. And of course I was careful to let the public understand that this was so in my letter to the _Times_. But in what circumstances did he express the wish? (_He suddenly realises OLIVER’S cigarette and says sharply_) Oliver, you know quite well that your grandfather—— (_But then he remembers where grandfather is._) OLIVER (_not understanding_). Yes? MARION. I think Father meant—of course Grandfather can’t see you now—not to mind. WILLIAM. I should have thought your instinct would have told you that this is hardly the moment, when Oliver Blayds is just laid to rest—— MARION. Your cigarette, dear. OLIVER. Oh! (_He throws it away._) Sorry, Mother, if you mind. I didn’t think it would matter either way—now. MARION. That’s all right, dear. WILLIAM. As I was saying, in what circumstances did he express the wish? MARION. What, dear? WILLIAM. On his death-bed, his faculties rapidly going, he may have indicated preference for a simple ceremony. But certainly up to a few weeks of his passing, although it was naturally a subject which I did not care myself to initiate, he always gave me the impression that he anticipated an interment in the Abbey. MARION. Yes, dear. I daresay I shall feel it more later, but just now I like to think of him where he wanted to be himself. SEPTIMA. After all, Shakespeare isn’t buried in the Abbey.