WILLIAM. No, we can be frank now. The 1863 volume was bad. And now we see why. He wished to give this dear dead friend of his a chance. I can see these two friends—Oliver—and—er—— (_Going to ROYCE_) What was Mr.—er—Jenkins’ other name? (_He reads it over ROYCE’S shoulder_) Ah, yes, Willoughby—I can see that last scene when Willoughby lay dying, and his friend Oliver stood by his side. I can hear Willoughby lamenting that none of his poetry will ever be heard now in the mouths of others—and Oliver’s silent resolve that in some way, at some time, Willoughby’s work shall be given to the world. And so in 1863, when his own position was firmly established, he issues this little collection of his dead friend’s poetry, these few choicest sheaves from poor Willoughby’s indiscriminate harvest, sheltering them, as he hoped, from the storm of criticism with the mantle of his own great name. A noble resolve, a chivalrous undertaking, but alas! of no avail. ROYCE. You will say this in your life of Oliver Blayds? WILLIAM. I shall—er—hint at the doubtful authorship of the 1863 volume; perhaps it would be better not to go into the matter too fully. MARION (_to ISOBEL_). It would be much nicer, dear, if we didn’t refer to any of the unhappy thoughts which we have all had about Grandfather in the last few days. We know now that we never ought to have doubted. He was—Grandfather. ISOBEL (_after a pause, to ROYCE_). Well? (_He shrugs his shoulders._) Will you find the children? I think they ought to know this. ROYCE. Right. Do you want me to come back? ISOBEL. Please. (_He goes out. When he has gone she turns to WILLIAM_) I am going to publish the truth about Oliver Blayds. MARION. But that’s what we all want to do, dear. WILLIAM. What do you mean by the truth? ISOBEL. What we all know to be the truth in our hearts. WILLIAM. I deny it. I deny it utterly. I am convinced that the explanation which I have given is the true one. ISOBEL. Then I shall publish the explanation which he gave _me_. WILLIAM. Isobel, I should have thought that you, of all people, would have wanted to believe in Oliver Blayds. ISOBEL. Wanted to! If only “wanting to” were the same as believing, how easy life would be! MARION. It _is_ very nearly the same, dear. If you try very hard. I have found it a great comfort. WILLIAM. I must beg you to reconsider your decision. I had the honour of the friendship of Oliver Blayds for many years, and I tell you frankly that I will not allow this slander of a dead man to pass unchallenged. ISOBEL. Which dead man? WILLIAM (_a little upset_). This slander on Oliver Blayds. ISOBEL. It is not slander. I shall tell the truth about him. WILLIAM. Then I shall tell the truth about him too. (_ISOBEL turns away with a shrug, and sees SEPTIMA, ROYCE, and OLIVER coming in._) ISOBEL. Thank you, Mr. Royce. Septima, Oliver—— (_She gives them the letter to read._)