Clara. Poor Gilbert!—I am so sorry I did not know this sooner. Of all people, I should for my own part have preferred Gilbert for the inn, he would have kept it so well.
Sir W. He would so. (Sighs.)
Clara. I do so blame myself—I have been so precipitate, so foolish, so wrong—without consulting you even.
Sir W. Nay, my dear, I have been as wrong, as foolish, as precipitate as you; for before I consulted you, I told Gilbert that I could almost promise that he should have the inn in consequence of my recommendation. And upon the strength of that almost he is gone a courting. My dear, we are both a couple of fools; but I am an old—you are a young one. There is a wide difference—let that comfort you.
Clara. Oh, sir, nothing comforts me, I am so provoked with myself; and you will be so provoked with me, when I tell you how silly I have been.
Sir W. Pray tell me.
Clara. Would you believe that I have literally given it for a song? A man sent me this morning a copy of verses to the heiress of Bannow. The verses struck my fancy—I suppose because they flattered me; and with the verses came a petition setting forth claims, and a tenant’s right, and fair promises, and a proposal for the new inn; and at the bottom of the paper I rashly wrote these words—“The poet’s petition is granted.”
Sir W. A promise in writing, too!—My dear Clara, I cannot flatter you—this certainly is not a wise transaction. So, to reward a poet, you made him an innkeeper. Well, I have known wiser heads, to reward a poet, make him an exciseman.
Clara. But, sir, I am not quite so silly as they were, for I did not make the poet an innkeeper—he is one already.
Sir W. An innkeeper already!—Whom do you mean?