Clara. A man with a strange name—or a name that will sound strange to your English ears—Christy Gallagher.
Sir W. A rogue and a drunken dog, I understand: but he is a poet, and knows how to flatter the heiress of Bannow.
Clara. (striking her forehead) Silly, silly Clara!
Sir W. (changing his tone from irony to kindness) Come, my dear Clara, I will not torment you any more. You deserve to have done a great deal of mischief by your precipitation; but I believe this time you have done little or none, at least none that is irremediable; and you have made Gilbert happy, I hope and believe, though without intending it.
Clara. My dear uncle—you set my heart at ease—but explain.
Sir W. Then, my dear, I shrewdly suspect that the daughter of this Christy What-do-you-call-him is the lady of Gilbert’s thoughts.
Clara. I see it all in an instant. That’s delightful! We can pension off the drunken old father, and Gilbert and the daughter will keep the inn. Gilbert is in the green-house, preparing the coloured lamps—let us go and speak to him this minute, and settle it all.
Sir W. Speak to him of his loves? Oh, my dear, you’d kill him on the spot! He is so bashful, he’d blush to death.
Clara. Well, sir, do you go alone, and I will keep far, far aloof.
{Exeunt at opposite sides.