WILLIAM. Isobel is telling us that Oliver Blayds stole all his poetry from another man.
MARION. Stole it!
WILLIAM. Passed it off as his own.
MARION (firmly to ISOBEL). Oh no, dear, you must be wrong. Why should Grandfather want to steal anybody else’s poetry when he wrote so beautifully himself?
SEPTIMA. That’s just the point, Mother. Aunt Isobel says that he didn’t write anything himself.
MARION. But there are the books with his name on them!
ISOBEL. Stolen—from his friend.
MARION (shocked). Isobel, how can you? Your own father!
WILLIAM. I don’t believe it. I had the privilege of knowing Oliver Blayds for nearly thirty years and I say that I don’t believe it.
[229]ISOBEL. I knew him for some time too. He was my father.