SEPTIMA. Yes.... I suppose that’s why one cries [219]at weddings. Or at—no, I’ve never been to a christening.
OLIVER. You have. And I bet you cried.
SEPTIMA. Oh, my own, yes....
OLIVER. Wonderful crowd of people. I don’t think I ever realised before what a great man he was.
SEPTIMA. No, one doesn’t....
OLIVER (after a pause). You know there’s a lot of rot talked about death.
SEPTIMA. A lot of rot talked about everything.
OLIVER. Here was Oliver Blayds—the greatest man of his day—seen everything, known everybody, ninety years old, honoured by all—and then he goes out. Well!
SEPTIMA. Nothing is here for tears, in fact.
OLIVER. Not only nothing for tears, but everything for rejoicings. I don’t understand these religious people. They’re quite certain that there’s an after life, and that this life is only a preparation for it—like a cold bath in the morning to the rest of the day. And yet they are always the people who make the most fuss, and cover themselves with black, and say, “Poor Grandfather!” ever after. Why poor? He is richer than ever according to them.