ISOBEL. Tell him about it, dear.
BLAYDS. I had a new pair of boots. They squeaked. They squeaked all the way from London to the Isle of Wight. The Queen was waiting for me at the end of a long room. I squeaked in. I bowed. I squeaked my way up to her. We talked. I was not allowed to sit down, of course; I just stood shifting from one foot to the other—and squeaking. She said: “Don’t you think Lord Tennyson’s poetry is very beautiful?” and I squeaked and said, “Damn these boots!” A gentleman-in-waiting told me afterwards that it was contrary to etiquette to start a new topic of conversation with Royalty—so I suppose that that is why I have never been asked to Court again.
ISOBEL. It was your joke, Father, not the gentleman-in-waiting’s. (BLAYDS chuckles.)
ROYCE. Yes, I’m sure of that.
BLAYDS. Isobel knows all my stories.... When you’re ninety, they know all your stories.
ISOBEL. I like hearing them again, dear, and Mr. Royce hasn’t heard them.
BLAYDS. I’ll tell you one you don’t know, Isobel.
ISOBEL. Not you.
BLAYDS. Will you bet?
ISOBEL. It’s taking your money.