[Goldsmith, untidily dressed, is striding up and down.]
Goldsmith. [After glancing impatiently at the door several times, opens it and calls loudly.] Margery!
Margery. [Coming in and curtseying.] Did you want for anything, sir?
Goldsmith. Has that graceless brother of yours not come back? Sure it’s above an hour since he set off.
Margery. Oh, sir, Dick has never been so long as that!
Goldsmith. An hour, I tell you, and the half of that besides! He’ll be playing at pitch-and-toss in the court, I warrant you.
Margery. Oh, sir, he’d not do that—not when you sent him so particular!
Goldsmith. Never you be too sure, Margery, of what folks will do or not do. There’s myself now. You’d never believe that I could be so foolish as to sell a good song for a paltry five shillings. But many’s the time I did it in the old town of Dublin, and climbed the college wall at night to hear the verses sung in the streets too. Then, like as not, some poor soul that needed the money more than I would beg the crown piece from me before I found my way back to the wretched garret where I lodged. But times have changed, Margery.
Margery. [Hesitatingly.] Yes, sir; but, you see, sir, you still—
Goldsmith. [Hurriedly.] Run down to the door like a good maid, do, and see if Dick’s in sight. [Margery goes out; Goldsmith paces up and down restlessly for a moment, then, going to the table, opens the drawer noisily and rummages among his papers.] A plague on all landladies, say I! [In a tone of disgust.] And not so much as an old song left to sell this time!