SEPTIMA. Certainly; I could do all that for ninepence, and you’d still be threepence in hand. (_Sternly to OLIVER_) Blayds-Conway, young fellow, have you been making r-revelations about your ger-rand-father? OLIVER. My dear girl, I’ve made no r-revelations whatever. What’s upset him probably is that I refused to recite to him “A Child’s Thoughts on Waking.” SEPTIMA. Did he pat your head and ask you to? ROYCE. No, he didn’t. SEPTIMA. Well, you needn’t be huffy about it, Mr. Royce. You would have been in very good company. Meredith and Hardy have, and lots of others. OLIVER. Well, anyway, I’ve never been kissed by Maeterlinck. SEPTIMA (_looking down coyly_). Mr. Royce, you have surprised my secret, which I have kept hidden these seventeen years. Maeterlinck—Maurice and I—— ROYCE. Revelations was not quite the word. What I should have said was that I have been plunged suddenly, and a little unexpectedly, into an unromantic, matter-of-fact atmosphere, which hardly suits the occasion of my visit. On any other day—you see what I mean, Miss Septima. SEPTIMA. You’re quite right. This is not the occasion for persiflage. Besides, we’re very proud of him really. ROYCE. I’m sure you are. SEPTIMA (_weightily_). You know, Noll, there are times when I think that possibly we have misjudged Blayds. OLIVER. Blayds the poet or Blayds the man? SEPTIMA. Blayds the man. After all, Uncle Thomas was devoted to him, and _he_ was rather particular. Wasn’t he, Mr. Royce? ROYCE. I don’t think I know your Uncle Thomas, do I? SEPTIMA. He wasn’t mine, he was mother’s. OLIVER. The Sage of Chelsea. ROYCE. Oh, Carlyle. Surely—— SEPTIMA. Mother called them all “uncle” in her day. ROYCE. Well, now, there you are. That’s one of the most charming things about Oliver Blayds. He has always had a genius for friendship. Read the lives and letters of all the great Victorians, and you find it all the way. They loved him. They—— OLIVER (_striking up_). God save our gracious Queen! ROYCE (_with a good-humoured shrug_). Oh, well! SEPTIMA. Keep it for father and mother, Mr. Royce. We’re hopeless. Shall I tell you why? ROYCE. Yes? SEPTIMA. When you were a child, did you ever get the giggles in church? ROYCE. Almost always—when the Vicar wasn’t looking. SEPTIMA. There’s something about it, isn’t there—the solemnity of it all—which starts you giggling? When the Vicar isn’t looking. ROYCE. Yes. SEPTIMA. Exactly. And that’s why _we_ giggle—when the Vicar isn’t looking. MARION (_from outside_). Septima! OLIVER. And here comes the Vicar’s wife. (_MARION BLAYDS-CONWAY is fifty-five now. A dear, foolish woman, who has never got over the fact that she is OLIVER BLAYDS’ daughter, but secretly thinks that it is almost more wonderful to be WILLIAM BLAYDS-CONWAY’S wife._) MARION. Oh, there you are. Why didn’t you—— (_She sees ROYCE_) Oh! OLIVER. This is Mr. A. L. Royce, Mother. MARION (_distantly_). How do you do? ROYCE. How do you do?