_Sir W._ So thought I till this morning. But love, my dear--love is lord of all. Poor Gilbert! _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? _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.