CYRUS. Do you know what it is?

CARVE. Yes. It's a will that was made in Venice I don't know how long
ago--just after your aunt died and you had that appalling and final
shindy by correspondence about the lease of this house. Everything is
left for the establishment of an International Gallery of Painting and
Sculpture in London, and you're the sole executor, and you get a legacy
of five pounds for your trouble.

CYRUS. Yes.... So I see. No doubt my cousin imagined it would annoy me.

CARVE. He did.

CYRUS. He told you so?

CARVE. He said it would be one in the eye for you--and he wondered
whether you'd decline the executorship.

CYRUS. Well, my man, I may tell you at once that I shall not renounce
probate. I never expected a penny from my cousin. I always assumed he'd
do something silly with his money, and I'm relieved to find it's no
worse. In fact, the idea of a great public institution in London being
associated with my family is rather pleasant.

CARVE. But he meant to destroy that will long since.

CYRUS. (As he cons the will.) How do you know? Has he made a later
will?

CARVE. No.