SEPTIMA. I think it’s rot, trying to deceive ourselves by making up a story about Grandfather, just because we don’t like the one which he told Aunt Isobel. What does it all matter anyhow? There’s the poetry, and jolly good too, most of it. What does it matter when you’ve quoted it, whether you add, “As Blayds nobly said” or “As Jenkins nobly said”? It’s the same poetry. There was Grandfather. We all knew him well, and we all had plenty of chances of making up our minds about him. How can what he did seventy years ago, when he was another person altogether, make any difference to our opinion of him? And then there’s the money. I said that it ought to be ours, and it is ours. Well, there we are.
WILLIAM. You are quite content that your Aunt should publish, as she proposes to, this story of—er—Willoughby Jenkins, which I am convinced is a base libel on the reputation of Oliver Blayds?
OLIVER. I say, Aunt Isobel, are you really going to? I mean do you still believe——
ISOBEL. I am afraid I do, Oliver.
OLIVER. Good Lord!
WILLIAM. Well—Septima?
SEPTIMA. I am quite content with the truth. And if you want the truth about Septima Blayds-Conway, [258]it is that the truth about Blayds is not really any great concern of hers.
OLIVER. Well, that’s a pretty selfish way of looking at it.
MARION. I don’t know what Grandfather would say if he could hear you.
ISOBEL. Thank you, Septima. You’re honest anyhow.