SEPTIMA. Well, of course.
OLIVER. It’s all very well for her to talk like that, but it’s a jolly big concern of mine. If it comes out, I’m done. As a politician anyway.
ROYCE. What do you believe, Oliver?
OLIVER. I told you. Hallucination. At least it seems just as likely as the other. And that being so, I think we ought to give it the benefit of the doubt. What is the truth about Blayds—I don’t know——
ISOBEL (calmly). I do, Oliver.
WILLIAM (sharply). So do I.
OLIVER. Well, I mean, there you are. Probably the truth lies somewhere in between——
ROYCE (with a smile, speaking almost unconsciously). No, no, you mustn’t waste yourself on engineering. (Recovering himself with a start) I beg your pardon.
OLIVER. Anyway, I’m with Father. I don’t think we ought to take the risk of doing Oliver Blayds an injustice by saying anything about this—this hallucination.
WILLIAM. There is no question of risk. It’s a certainty. Come, Marion. (He leads the way to the door.) We have much to do. (Challengingly) We have much work yet to do upon the life of this great poet, this great and chivalrous gentleman, Oliver Blayds!