ROYCE. I am here on behalf of certain of my contemporaries——
OLIVER. Homage from some of our younger writers——
ROYCE. Mr. Blayds was gracious enough to indicate that——
SEPTIMA (in a violent whisper). A. L. Royce, Mother!
MARION. Oh! Oh, I beg your pardon. Why didn’t you tell me it was A. L. Royce, Oliver? Of course! We wrote to you.
ROYCE. Yes.
MARION (all hospitality). How silly of me! You must forgive me, Mr. Royce. Oliver ought to have told me. Grandfather—Mr. Blayds—will be ready at three-thirty. The doctor was very anxious that Grandfather shouldn’t see any one this year—outside the family, of course. I couldn’t tell you how many people wrote asking if they could come to-day. Presidents of Societies and that sort of thing. From all over the world. Father did tell us. Do you remember, Septima?
[192]SEPTIMA. I’m afraid I don’t, Mother. I know I didn’t believe it.
MARION (to ROYCE). Septima—after the poem, you know. “Septima, seventh dark daughter——” (And she would quote the whole of it, but that her children interrupt.)
OLIVER (solemnly). Don’t say you’ve never heard of it, Royce.