ROYCE. Oh, nonsense!
OLIVER. It’s true. Do you think I want to be a private secretary to a dashed politician? What’s a private secretary at his best but a superior sort of valet? I wanted to be a motor engineer. Not allowed. Why not? Because the Blayds in Blayds-Conway wouldn’t have been any use. But politicians simply live on that sort of thing.
[186]ROYCE. What sort of thing?
OLIVER. Giving people jobs because they’re the grandsons of somebody.
ROYCE. Yes, I wonder if I was as cynical as you eighteen years ago.
OLIVER. Probably not; there wasn’t a Grandfather Royce. By the way, talking about being jolly good fellows and all that, have you noticed that I haven’t offered you a cigarette yet?
ROYCE. I don’t want to smoke.
OLIVER. Well, that’s lucky. Smoking isn’t allowed in here.
ROYCE (annoyed by this). Now look here, Conway, do you mind if I speak plainly?
OLIVER. Do. But just one moment before you begin. My name, unfortunately, is Blayds-Conway. Call me Conway at the Club and I’ll thank you for it. But if you call me Conway in the hearing of certain members of my family, I’m afraid there will be trouble. Now what were you going to say?