WILLIAM. The one which Browning gave you, sir?
BLAYDS. Of course. I wish to show Mr. Royce the inscription—(to ROYCE)—an absurd one, all rhymes to Blayds. It will be in the library somewhere; it may have got moved.
WILLIAM. Certainly, sir.
ISOBEL. Father——
BLAYDS (holding up a hand to stop her). Thank you, William. (William goes out.) You were saying, Isobel?
ISOBEL. Nothing. I thought it was in your bedroom. I was reading to you last night.
BLAYDS (sharply). Of course it’s in my bedroom. But can’t I get my own son-in-law out of the room if I want to?
ISOBEL (soothingly). Of course, dear. It was silly of me.
BLAYDS. My son-in-law, Mr. Royce, meditates after my death a little book called “Blaydsiana.” He hasn’t said so, but I see it written all over him. In addition, you understand, to the official life in two volumes. There may be another one called “On the Track of Blayds in the Cotswolds,” but I am not certain of this yet. (He chuckles to himself.)
ISOBEL (reproachfully). Father!