MARION. Grandfather, as you know, has refused a Peerage more than once. But I always say that if devotion to duty counts for anything, William, my husband, ought to have been knighted long ago. Perhaps when Grandfather has passed away—— But there! ROYCE. I was telling Oliver that I did meet Mr. Blayds once—and Miss Blayds. Down at Bournemouth. She was looking after him. He wasn’t very well at the time. MARION. Oh, Isobel, yes. A wonderful nurse. I don’t know what Grandfather would do without her. ROYCE. She is still——? I thought perhaps she was married, or—— MARION. Oh, no! Isobel isn’t the marrying sort. I say that I don’t know what Grandfather would do without her, but I might almost say that I don’t know what she would do without Grandfather. (_Looking at her watch_) Dear me, I promised Father that I would get those letters off. Septima, dear, you must help me. Have you been round the house at all, Mr. Royce? ROYCE. No, I’ve only just come. MARION. There are certain rooms which are shown to the public. Signed photographs, gifts from Tennyson, Ruskin, Carlyle and many others. Illuminated addresses and so on, all most interesting. Oliver, perhaps you would show Mr. Royce—if it would interest you—— ROYCE. Oh, indeed, yes. MARION. Oliver! OLIVER (_throwing down the book he was looking at_). Right. (_He gets up._) Come on, Royce. (_As they go out_) There’s one thing that I can show you, anyway. ROYCE. What’s that? OLIVER (_violently_). My bedroom. We’re allowed to smoke there. [_They go out._ MARION (_sitting down at the writing-table_). He seems a nice man. About thirty-five, wouldn’t you say—or more? SEPTIMA. Forty. But you never can tell with men. (_She comes to the table._) MARION (_getting to work_). Now those letters just want putting into their envelopes. And _those_ want envelopes written for them. If you will read out the addresses, dear—I think that will be the quickest way—I will—— SEPTIMA (_thinking her own thoughts_). Mother! MARION. Yes, dear? (_Writing_) Doctor John Treherne. SEPTIMA. I want to speak to you. MARION. Do you mean about anything important? SEPTIMA. For me, yes. MARION. You haven’t annoyed your grandfather, I hope. SEPTIMA. It has nothing to do with Grandfather. MARION. Beechcroft, Bexhill-on-Sea. We’ve been so busy all day. Naturally, being the Birthday. Couldn’t you leave it till to-morrow, dear? SEPTIMA (_eagerly_). Rita Ferguson wants me to share rooms with her. You know I’ve always wanted to, and now she’s just heard of some; there’s a studio goes with it. On Campden Hill. MARION. Yes, dear. We’ll see what Grandfather says. SEPTIMA (_annoyed_). I said that this has nothing to do with Grandfather. We’re talking about _me_. It’s no good trying to do anything here, and—— MARION. There! I’ve written _Campden_ Hill; how stupid of me. _Haverstock_ Hill. We’ll see what Grandfather says, dear. SEPTIMA (_doggedly_). It has nothing to do with Grandfather.