_A solid, handsomely-furnished room in a house in Portman Square—solid round table, solid writing-desk, solid chairs and sofa, with no air of comfort, but only of dignity. Over the fireplace is a painting of OLIVER BLAYDS, also handsome and dignified.... OLIVER BLAYDS-CONWAY, his young grandson, comes in with ROYCE, the latter a clean-shaven man of forty, whose thick dark hair shows a touch of grey. It is about three o’clock in the afternoon._ * * * * * OLIVER (_as he comes in_). This way. (_He holds the door open for ROYCE._) ROYCE (_coming in_). Thanks. OLIVER. Some of the family will be showing up directly. Make yourself comfortable. (_For himself, he does his best in one of the dignified chairs._) ROYCE. Thanks. (_He looks round the room with interest, and sees the picture over the fireplace_) Hallo, there he is. OLIVER. What? (_Bored_) Oh, the old ’un, yes. ROYCE (_reverently_). Oliver Blayds, the last of the Victorians. (_OLIVER sighs and looks despairingly to Heaven._) I can’t take my hat off because it’s off already, but I should like to. OLIVER. Good Lord, you don’t really feel like that, do you? ROYCE. Of course. Don’t you? OLIVER. Well, hardly. He’s my grandfather. ROYCE. True. (_Smiling_) All the same, there’s nothing in the Ten Commandments about _not_ honouring your grandfather. OLIVER. Nothing about honouring ’em either. It’s left optional. Of course, he’s a wonderful old fellow—ninety, and still going strong; but—well, as I say, he’s my grandfather. ROYCE. I’m afraid, Conway, that even the fact of his being your grandfather doesn’t prevent me thinking him a very great poet, a very great philosopher, and a very great man. OLIVER (_interested_). I say, do you really mean that, or are you just quoting from the Address you’ve come to present? ROYCE. Well, it’s in the Address, but then I wrote the Address, and got it up. OLIVER. Yes, I know—you told me—“To Oliver Blayds on his ninetieth birthday: Homage from some of the younger writers.” Very pretty of them and all that, and the old boy will love it. But do they really feel like that about him—that’s what interests me. I’ve always thought of him as old-fashioned, early Victorian, and that kind of thing. ROYCE. Oh, he is. Like Shakespeare. Early Elizabethan and that kind of thing. OLIVER. Shakespeare’s different. I meant more like Longfellow.... Don’t think I am setting up my opinion against yours. If you say that Blayds’ poetry is as good as the best, I’ll take your word for it. Blayds the poet, _you’re_ the authority. Blayds the grandfather, _I_ am. ROYCE. All right, then, you can take my word for it that his best is as good as the best. Simple as Wordsworth, sensuous as Tennyson, passionate as Swinburne. OLIVER. Yes, but what about the modern Johnnies? The Georgians. ROYCE. When they’re ninety I’ll tell you. If I’m alive. OLIVER. Thanks very much.