ROYCE. When they’re ninety I’ll tell you. If I’m alive.
OLIVER. Thanks very much.
(There is a short silence. ROYCE leaves the picture and comes slowly towards the writing-table.)
OLIVER (shaking his head). Oh, no!
ROYCE (turning round). What?
OLIVER. That’s not the table where the great masterpieces are written, and that’s not the pen they are written with.
ROYCE. My dear fellow——
OLIVER. Is there a pen there, by the way?
ROYCE (looking). Yes. Yours?
OLIVER. The family’s. You’ve no idea how difficult it is to keep pens there.