OLIVER (_after reading_). By Jove! Sportsman! I always said—— (_Frankly_) No, I didn’t. SEPTIMA (_after reading_). Good. Well, that’s all right then. ISOBEL. We have been talking over what I told you the other day, and your father now has a theory that it was the 1863 volume which was written by this man, and that your grandfather in telling me the story had got it into his head somehow—— WILLIAM. A very old man, his faculties rapidly going—— ISOBEL. Had muddled the story up. OLIVER (_brightening up_). Good for you, Father! I see! Of course! Then it was hallucination after all? ISOBEL. You had discussed it before? OLIVER. Oh, rather! ISOBEL (_to SEPTIMA_). And you? OLIVER. I told Septima the idea. ISOBEL. And what does Septima say? (_They all turn to her._) SEPTIMA (_emphatically_). Rot! MARION (_shocked_). Septima! Your father! SEPTIMA. Well, you asked me what I said, and I’m telling you. Rot. R-O-T. WILLIAM (_coldly_). Kindly explain yourself a little more lucidly. OLIVER. It’s all rot saying “rot”—— WILLIAM. One at a time, please. Septima? SEPTIMA. I think it’s rot, trying to deceive ourselves by making up a story about Grandfather, just because we don’t like the one which he told Aunt Isobel. What does it all matter anyhow? There’s the poetry, and jolly good too, most of it. What does it matter when you’ve quoted it, whether you add, “As Blayds nobly said” or “As Jenkins nobly said”? It’s the same poetry. There was Grandfather. We all knew him well, and we all had plenty of chances of making up our minds about him. How can what he did seventy years ago, when he was another person altogether, make any difference to our opinion of him? And then there’s the money. I said that it ought to be ours, and it is ours. Well, there we are. WILLIAM. You are quite content that your Aunt should publish, as she proposes to, this story of—er—Willoughby Jenkins, which I am convinced is a base libel on the reputation of Oliver Blayds? OLIVER. I say, Aunt Isobel, are you really going to? I mean do you _still_ believe—— ISOBEL. I am afraid I do, Oliver. OLIVER. Good Lord! WILLIAM. Well—Septima? SEPTIMA. I am quite content with the truth. And if you want the truth about Septima Blayds-Conway, it is that the truth about Blayds is not really any great concern of hers. OLIVER. Well, that’s a pretty selfish way of looking at it. MARION. I don’t know what Grandfather would say if he could hear you. ISOBEL. Thank you, Septima. You’re honest anyhow. SEPTIMA. Well, of course. OLIVER. It’s all very well for _her_ to talk like that, but it’s a jolly big concern of mine. If it comes out, I’m done. As a politician anyway. ROYCE. What do _you_ believe, Oliver? OLIVER. I told you. Hallucination. At least it seems just as likely as the other. And that being so, I think we ought to give it the benefit of the doubt. What _is_ the truth about Blayds—I don’t know—— ISOBEL (_calmly_). I do, Oliver. WILLIAM (_sharply_). So do I.