MARION (busy with the telegrams). Some of these are a little difficult. Do you think that Sir John and Lady Wilkins would look better among the distinguished people including Royalty, or with the unknown and anonymous ones?
WILLIAM. Anybody doubtful is unknown. I only want a rough grouping. We shall have a general acknowledgment in the Times. And oh, that reminds me. I want an announcement for the late editions of the evening papers. Perhaps you had better just take this down. You can finish those afterwards.
MARION. Yes, dear. (She gets ready) Yes, dear?
WILLIAM (after tremendous thought). Oliver Blayds, ninety to-day.
MARION (writing). Oliver Blayds, ninety to-day.
WILLIAM. The veteran poet spent his ninetieth birthday——
MARION (to herself). The veteran poet——
WILLIAM. Passed his ninetieth birthday—that’s better—passed his ninetieth birthday quietly, amid his family——
MARION. Amid his family——
WILLIAM. At his well-known house—residence—in Portman Square. (He stops suddenly. You thought he was just dictating, but his brain has been working all the time, and he has come to a decision. He announces it.) We will drink the health in here. See that there is an extra glass for Mr. Royce. “In Portman Square”—have you got that?