MARION. As Grandfather said so beautifully himself in his “Ode to Truth”—What are the lines? SEPTIMA (_hopelessly_). Oh, Mother! MARION. Yes, and that was what I was going to say—could a man who wrote so beautifully about Truth as Grandfather did tell lies and deceive people as Isobel says he did? (_To ISOBEL_) I’m sure you must have made a mistake, dear. OLIVER. You never told us—what was the other fellow’s name? WILLIAM. I am coming to that directly. What I am asking you now is this. Did Oliver Blayds write no line of poetry himself at all? ISOBEL. He wrote the 1863 volume. WILLIAM (_staggered_). Oh! OLIVER. The wash-out? By Jove! Then _that_ explains it! ISOBEL. Yes, that explains it. He tried to tell himself that he was a poet too; that he had only used the other man in order to give himself a start. So he brought out a volume of his own poems. And then when everybody said “Blayds is finished,” he went back hastily to his friend and never ventured by himself again. And that explains why he resented the criticism of that volume, why he was so pleased when it was praised. It was all that he had written. WILLIAM (_defeated now_). Yes, that would explain it. (_To himself_) Oliver Blayds!... (_They are all silent for a little._) SEPTIMA. Then he didn’t write “Septima.” OLIVER. Of course he didn’t. You’re illegitimate, old girl. SEPTIMA. Who did? ISOBEL. The other man’s name was Jenkins. SEPTIMA (_in disgust_). Christened after Jenkins! OLIVER. Oliver Jenkins-Conway, M.P. Good Lord! SEPTIMA. It will have to be Oliver Conway now. OLIVER (_gloomily_). Yes, I suppose so. But everybody will know. WILLIAM (_still fighting_). His friends, Isobel. The great friends he had had. The stories he has told us about them—were those all lies too? No, they couldn’t have been. I’ve seen them here myself. MARION. Why, I remember going to see Uncle Thomas once when I was a little girl—Carlyle—Uncle Thomas I called him. OLIVER. Well, if it comes to that, _I_ can remember—— ISOBEL. Oh, the friends were there. They accepted him for what he seemed to be, just as we did. He deceived them as cleverly as he deceived us. WILLIAM. Tennyson, Browning, Swinburne—— ISOBEL (_bitterly_). Oh, he had his qualities. He talked well. There were his books. Why should they doubt him? WILLIAM. Yes.... Yes. (_There is silence for a little._) MARION (_going over to ISOBEL and shaking her by the arm_). Is it really true what you’ve been saying? ISOBEL. Oh, how I wish it weren’t. MARION (_to WILLIAM_). _Is_ it true? WILLIAM. He told her. She wouldn’t make it up. MARION. But there’s all that beautiful poetry. I’ve been brought up to believe in it all my life. I’ve lived on it. And now you’ve taken it away, and you’ve left—nothing. ISOBEL. Nothing. MARION (_quite lost_). I don’t understand. (_She goes back in a vague, bewildered way to her chair...._) SEPTIMA (_defiantly_). The poetry is still there—and Jenkins. OLIVER (_shouting_). Shut up, Tim!