[243]ROYCE. Don’t mention it.
OLIVER. What’s happened?
ROYCE. Miss Blayds asked me to help her. As you know, she is executor to Blayds. Of course your father is helping too, but there’s a good deal to be done.
OLIVER. I see. (Awkwardly) I say, I suppose you—I mean has she—I mean, what about——
ROYCE. Miss Blayds has told me.
OLIVER. Oh! Nobody else yet?
ROYCE. No.
OLIVER. I’ve been rushing for the papers every morning expecting to see something about it.
ROYCE. We want to get everything in order first—the financial side of it as well as the other—and then make a plain straightforward statement of what has happened and what we propose to do.
OLIVER. Yes, of course you can’t just write to The Times and say: “Dear Sir, Blayds’ poetry was written by Jenkins, Yours faithfully.”... When will it be, do you think?