Lady. [To Servant.] When my lord returns, tell him I'm gone to Lady Walton's, and shall be back immediately.
Will. Then your ladyship is certain Harry Neville is arrived.
Lady. Yes—the ungrateful man arrived last night, and, as I yet mean to consult his happiness, I have written to him to come to me this evening—but I will ever oppose his union with my lord's ward, Louisa Courtney, because I think it will be the ruin of them both; and you know, Willoughby, one cannot forget one's feelings on those occasions.
Will. Certainly—Ennui, the time-killer, whose only business in life is to murder the hour, is also just arrived; and my lord is resolved on his marrying Louisa instantly.
Lady. True—and only because he'll make a quiet member for his brother in the west. But, for various reasons, I am determined she shall be yours—yet it must be done artfully—my circumstances are deranged, and an alliance with my lord Scratch is the only hope of relief.—Such are the fruits of virtue, Willoughby.
Will. Well—but her fortune is entirely dependent on my Lord's consent, and how is that to be obtained? You know I am no favourite, and Ennui is a great one.
Lady. I know it, and therefore we must incense him against Ennui—let me see——can't we contrive some mode,—some little ingenious story—he is a singular character, you know, and has violent prejudices.
Will. True—and of all his prejudices, none is so violent, or entertaining, as that against authors and actors.
Lady. Yes,—the stage is his aversion, and some way or other——I have it—it's an odd thought, but may do much—suppose we tell him Ennui has written a play.
Will. The luckiest thought in the world! it will make him hate him directly.