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.