WILLIAM. I don’t think that that has anything to do with it, Septima. I am not saying that the reputation of Oliver Blayds will suffer by reason of his absence from the national Valhalla—he has built his own monument in a thousand deathless lines; but speaking as an Englishman, I say that the Abbey had a right to him. MARION. Well, it’s too late now, dear. WILLIAM. I shall speak to Isobel again; I still feel sure she was mistaken. MARION. Very well, dear. But don’t worry her more than you need. I feel rather uneasy about her. She has been so strange since he died. WILLIAM. She will be worried enough as it is. Of all the extraordinary wills to make! (_OLIVER and SEPTIMA exchange glances._) OLIVER. Why, what’s he done? We were wondering about that. WILLIAM. Yes, yes, yes, you will know in good time, my boy. OLIVER. Why not now? This seems a very good time. SEPTIMA. Are we too young to be told? WILLIAM (_ignoring them_). Marion, don’t let me forget that message to the public—returning thanks for their sympathy, and so on. (_Moving to the desk._) We might draft that now. MARION. Yes, dear. SEPTIMA. Oliver was asking you about the will, Father. WILLIAM. Yes, yes, another time. Marion—— OLIVER. I suppose I am mentioned in it? WILLIAM. Of course, of course. OLIVER. To what extent? (_WILLIAM is too busy to answer._) SEPTIMA. Father, don’t be so childish. WILLIAM (_outraged_). Septima! MARION. Septima dear, you oughtn’t to talk to your father like that. WILLIAM (_with dignity_). I think you had better go to your room. SEPTIMA (_unmoved_). But that’s the whole point. Is it my room? (_WILLIAM looks bewildered._) Or is it Oliver’s, or Mother’s, or Aunt Isobel’s? OLIVER. I believe he has left everything to Aunt Isobel. MARION. Oh no, dear, he wouldn’t do that. He would never have favourites. Share and share alike. SEPTIMA. Half for you and half for Aunt Isobel? MARION. Of course, dear. And all to you and Oliver after our death. And something down to you now. I forget how much. (_To WILLIAM_) What was it, dear? WILLIAM (_sulkily_). A thousand pounds each. OLIVER. Sportsman! What about you, Father? Do you get anything? MARION. Father gets a thousand too. SEPTIMA. Then why “of all the extraordinary wills——”? MARION. It’s because of Aunt Isobel being made sole executor—literary executor too—isn’t that it, dear? WILLIAM (_mumbling_). Yes. OLIVER. Oho! Meaning that _she_ runs Blayds now? New editions, biographies, unpublished fragments, and all the rest of it? MARION. Naturally she will leave it in Father’s hands. But, of course, Father is a little hurt that Grandfather didn’t think of that for himself. OLIVER. Oh, well, I don’t suppose it matters much. Then that’s why she wants to see us all now. (_WILLIAM grunts assent; and stands up as ISOBEL comes in._) WILLIAM. Ah, here you are. ISOBEL. I’m sorry if I have kept you waiting. MARION. It’s all right, dear.