O’Bla. A thousand thanks down to the ground.
Mr. Carv. (patting him on the back as he rises) My poor Gerald.
O’Bla. Then I am poor Gerald in point of wit, I know; but you are too good a friend to be calling me poor to ould McBride—you can say what I can’t say.
Mr. Carv. Certainly, certainly; and you may depend on me. I shall speak my decided opinion; and I fancy McBride has sense enough to be ruled by me.
O’Bla. I am sure he has—only there’s a Randal Rooney, a wild young man, in the case. I’d be sorry the girl was thrown I away upon Randal.
Mr. Carv. She has too much sense: the father will settle that, and I’ll settle the father. {Mr. CARVER going.
O’Bla. (following, aside) And who has settled you?
Mr. Carv. Don’t stir—don’t stir—men of business must be nailed to a spot—and I’m not ceremonious. {Exit Mr. CARVER.
O’Bla. Pinned him by all that’s cliver! {Exit O’BLANEY.