OLIVER. That isn’t fair, Tim. An extreme case makes anything seem absurd. (_Earnestly to ISOBEL_) You know, I do see what you mean and I do sympathise. But even if we kept all the money, would that matter very much? All this man Jenkins wanted was to leave an immortal name behind him. You’ve just told us that nothing else interested him. Jenkins—I don’t say it’s much of a name, but neither was Keats for that matter. Well, Grandfather robbed him of that, and a damned shame too, but now we are giving it back to him. So all that’s happened is that he’s had seventy years less immortality than he expected. But he can’t worry seriously about that, any more than Wordsworth can worry because he was born two hundred years after Shakespeare. They are all equally immortal. MARION (_to ISOBEL_). You see, dear, that’s quite fair to everybody. ISOBEL. One can’t argue about it; you feel it or you don’t. And I give up my share of the money, so there should be plenty for all of you, even after you have been “fair” to the others. WILLIAM (_who has felt ISOBEL’S scorn deeply_). Isobel! I don’t think you can realise how much you have hurt me by your words. After the first shock of your revelation it has been my one object to keep my real feelings, my very deep feelings, under control. I suppose that this revelation, this appalling revelation, has meant more to me than to any one in this room. Put quite simply, it means the end of my life work, the end of a career.... I think you know how I devoted myself to Oliver Blayds—— MARION. Simply devoted himself, dear. WILLIAM. I gave up whatever other ambitions I may have had— MARION (_to the children_). I always said that Father could have done anything.