Enter Miss Frankland, with a scarf or shawl on her shoulders, as if going out, meeting Barbara, who enters by the opposite side.

⁠Sir John Crofton is below, madam. ⁠And have you not told him that I am going out? ⁠I did so, my dear lady; but what use is there in denying you to a gentleman who says he will return an hour hence, or an hour after that, or an hour after that again, should it be more convenient to you? ⁠Does he request to be admitted so earnestly? ⁠Yes, indeed; and his requests are like the sails of a windmill, always returning. ​ ⁠Very likely, Barbara, when there is breeze enough to swell them. ⁠How so, madam? ⁠You smile on him when he comes, perhaps, as if you would say, "My mistress is going out, but I know she will be pleased to see you, Sir John." ⁠Indeed, indeed, I did not, madam; and for any little presents he has given—I mean offered me, I scorn them as much as any body. But, I must needs own, madam, that I likes to see a genteel titled gentleman enter the house, who speaks to a poor servant cheerily, better than a grave stately Mr. Thingumy, who passes one as if one were the door-post. ⁠Don't be so discomposed, Barbara; I beg pardon if my suspicions wrong you. Be this as it may, I believe you wish me well. ⁠Ay, that I do; I wish you well, and rich, and every thing that is good. And lady sounds better than mistress at any rate. I little thought, after serving you almost twenty years as ​dry-nurse, school-nurse, and own maid, to be but the attendant of a plain gentlewoman at last.

⁠For thy sake, then, I had better look out for a peer. However, since it must be, desire Sir John Crofton to come up stairs.
⁠[Exit Barbara.
It is an unpleasant moment, and I shrink from it, but the sooner it is over the better. Ay, and to settle the matter with a good grace for him, and without mortification to myself, it must be done quickly.

⁠I thank you. Miss Frankland, for this condescension: five minutes of your company is precious when one cannot obtain more. But are you, indeed, obliged to go out? ⁠I really have business which obliges me to go. ⁠And I have business (pardon me for calling it by that name) which requires you to stay. Will you honour me so far? (Setting chairs and sitting down by her.) Miss Frankland, there are situations which must plead a man's excuse ​for abruptness—for precipitancy—for—for—in short, you understand me. I see by the glance of her eye, that Miss Frankland understands me to be in the most awkward situation that a man of feeling can be placed in. ⁠And is it on that account the more likely to embarrass Sir John Crofton? ⁠That sarcastic question does me the greatest injustice, (Laying his hand on his heart.) Could you read the real sentiments which are here embosomed, you would know how ardent, how disinterested, how unalterable is that attachment to your cruel self which you seem so inclined to sport with. ⁠In that case I should certainly know it, and regulate my gratitude accordingly. ⁠What frigid formal words may come from the fairest lips on the most interesting subjects! Gratitude! Oh, Miss Frankland! you know that it is something far more precious than gratitude which I would gladly earn from you by the whole affections of my heart, the whole devotion of my life and of my fortune. ​ ⁠And if I can give you no more, your suit of course is at an end, and free to be preferred in some more worthy and favourable quarter. ⁠O, do not say so! a more favourable, I painfully feel, may be easily found; a more worthy, never. ⁠You set upon me an imaginary value. ⁠Call it not so: I repeat my words; and permit me to add, adorable girl, that where worth is, favour deserves to be waited for. Say, that in a fortnight hence, I may have some chance of subduing your reluctance. ⁠I cannot. ⁠In a month, then? ⁠That would make no difference. ⁠Say two months, then—six months; ay, a whole year, if you can be so cruel as to withhold your consent to make me happy for so long a period. ​ ⁠That is a cruelty I shall never be guilty of. ⁠You delight, you transport me! on my knees I thank you, most bewitching of creatures! ⁠Rise up, Sir John, and waste no thanks on so small an obligation; but hear me out. With-holding my consent is a cruelty, as you are pleased to call it, of which I shall never be guilty, since what will never be given, cannot be said to be withheld for any period. ⁠Upon my honour. Miss Frankland, you are a practised angler, a very practised angler, no doubt; but do not think to hook a trout with bait that suits a gudgeon. ⁠You are angry. Sir John, and that admonishes me that I should be plain—that I should be honest. ⁠Ay, very honest, no doubt. (Going hastily away, and returning.) Nay, nay, nay! I am not angry; and you shall be as honest as you will, but kind at the same time. ​ ⁠As you understand the word kind, the two are incompatible. ⁠And how does Miss Frankland understand it, pray? ⁠That to put a speedy end to all suspense, even by a flat refusal, is kind in every thing that regards the affections; if I am not too presumptuous in supposing the present proposal to be a case of that nature. ⁠Faith, it is at least one of an extraordinary nature, and may excuse all concerned with it from the common rules of ceremony and etiquette. (Crossing the floor, then returning with a conceited smile.) Pardon me, Miss Frankland; I feel myself still at liberty to watch for some more propitious moment. ⁠Your patience will be tired out ere you find it; and so will the patience of my friend (looking at her watch), whom I promised to meet nearly half an hour ago. ​ ⁠O self-conceit, self-conceit! how is the most downright person in the world, restrained by the common rides of society, to deal with thee? And if thou art the cause of perseverance, what shall we say of the high-lauded virtue of constancy? ⁠Is it possible, Fanny Frankland? I could not have believed it. ⁠What is it that so thwarts your belief? ⁠That you should encourage the addresses of Sir John Crofton, because Clermont for a season was cajoled by the affected ardour of Lady Worrymore. You might have seen very well that he was ashamed of his sonnet, and enjoyed not the praises she lavished on it. ⁠And what puts it into your head that I have encouraged his addresses? ⁠I met him just now on the stairs, smiling to himself very knowingly, and when I asked him, ​with a significant look, how affairs prospered with him here, his answer was a nod of complacency, which wanted no words of explanation. ⁠I have given him as decided a refusal as my knowledge of civil language could provide me with. ⁠My poor simple creature! what dictionary in the world will furnish language sufficiently explicit to make a vain puppy understand that a woman will not have him? I should have understood his foolish smile better; pardon me, dear child. ⁠But it does not signify; he will understand it distinctly enough to-morrow without a dictionary's help, for I am convinced that our little boy is the son of poor Emma. ⁠We shall know that soon, for the German will be here to answer the questions of your uncle in a quarter of an hour. Clermont was indefatigable in finding him out. ⁠Was he? ​ ⁠Yes, he was; and why do you say this so languidly? ⁠To speak sincerely, then, I but half like his eagerness in helping to make me a poor woman. ⁠Fie, fie, Fanny Frankland! your heart is an unfit place for unworthy thoughts to harbour in. ⁠They sometimes harbour in better hearts than mine. ⁠Ay, they are subtle imps, that for a moment will find shelter anywhere; but they are quickly turned adrift, and have rest and entertainment only with the unworthy. ⁠I thank you! I thank you most gratefully, my dear Lady Shrewdly, for this friendly correction; I cast the base thought from my breast. I have given him cause by my petulance to suppose that I am not a fit companion for him, and therefore every thing particular between us is justly at an end. Why should I suppose that he has served me on this occasion from any but amiable motives? ​ ⁠Indeed you ought not to suppose it. ⁠Alas, my dear friend! ⁠Why that sigh? ⁠Do you know that I am afraid of myself? ⁠And why, dear child; of what are you afraid? ⁠I fear that, when I am comparatively poor, I sha'n't bear the neglect of the world and my own insignificance as I ought. ⁠Nay, that very fear is a voice from heaven for thy preservation. ⁠May it prove so! I feel I shall be supported in doing what is right; and feeling what is right may at length follow (raising her eyes to heaven), if my humble sacrifice be accepted. ⁠And it will be accepted, my own honest girl! But you were going out, I know, and I will not ​detain you: pray permit me to get into the carriage with you, that I may enjoy your company the longer. ⁠You are very kind.

⁠[Exeunt arm in arm.

Enter Paterson with books, which he lays upon a table, and then wheels his master's easy chair to its proper place.

⁠Ay, this here book of maps has had a long rest in the old bookcase; I wonder what campaigns and battles he has got into his head now. Howsomever, it signifies little, so as they can keep his notions of his own constitution, as he calls it, and ill-formed gout and affection of the kidneys, and the Lord knows what! out of it. ⁠I think this stiffness in my joints must be ​somehow connected with this uneasy feeling in my back: dost thou not think so, Paterson? yet the doctor says it is not. ⁠And should not he know best, sir? Lord bless your honour! my joints are stiff, as most old men's are; and my back aches often enough, God wot! but I never think of asking the doctor about it. Take a musket in your hand and pace about the gallery a bit, and I'll warrant your back will get better. ⁠Thou 'rt a rough physician, Paterson. ⁠But a kind one, your honour, and that is more than can be said of some that are smoother. ⁠Well, well; there's no changing thy nature, and I must e'en receive such sympathy as thou hast to give, ⁠The German foreigner is come, Sir, that you wished to see. Miss Frankland desired me to tell you. ⁠Let him come to me here. ​ ⁠And the little master too, sir? ⁠No, no! let him come by himself; Miss Frankland will look to the child.⁠[Exit Servant.
Hast thou any notion, Paterson, what this outlandish fellow has been sent for? ⁠I have a kind of notion, I know not how, about it. Does your honour wish me to leave the room? ⁠Stay where thou art; I would rather have thee by me.

(To Manhaunslet.) You are a foreigner, I understand, and have brought a little boy with you to this country.

⁠Yes, hon'rable sur. ⁠Is he your own son? ⁠He be good as son to me. ⁠That is no direct answer. Tell me the honest ​truth, and whatever it may be, I will reward thee for it. And if you say what is false, I am not such a dunderhead but I shall find it out. ⁠Ay; his honour will find you out, so you had better speak the plain truth at once. ⁠The boy, then, is not your own son; is he your relation? ⁠Do not know. ⁠Whose son is he? ⁠Do not know. ⁠Where was he born? ⁠Do not know. ⁠How did he fall into your hands? Answer me plainly; don't hesitate. ⁠Nay, your honour; he'll say "do not know" to that too. Just let him tell his story after his ​own fashion, and pick the truth out of it the best way you can. If it does not hang together, you can question him afterwards. ⁠I believe thou art right, Paterson. Tell me your story your own way, my friend. I have a curiosity to know how you came by the child, and I will pay you handsomely for satisfying it. And you need not be afraid of my taking the boy from you, till I have made you willing to part with him. ⁠Der be eight years ago, dat I passed trou de small town in Bohemia, in de night. When in one moment de large inn house burst into flame, and somebody wid two long arms trowed de child out from window, which I did catch in my gaberdine. ⁠And did you not learn what strangers were in the inn, and to whom he belonged ? ⁠One poor gentleman, who was taken ill in de house, and died of illness and of de burnings on dat night. ⁠What countryman was he? ​ ⁠Do not know. ⁠What papers, clothes, or goods did he leave behind him? ⁠All turned to cinder. ⁠What clothes had the child upon him, when you caught him in your gaberdine? ⁠One littel shirt. ⁠Had it any letters marked upon it? ⁠No. ⁠Where is that shirt now? ⁠It lie wid many oder rags to manure de corn-fields of Bohemia. ⁠And this is all you have to tell us of the boy? ⁠Not all. ​ ⁠Tell me the rest, then, quickly. ⁠Dere be no better boy for de tight rope, and de tumbling, and de jugglery, in all de worl: and he never telled no lie—no, not at all. ⁠Hang the tight rope and the jugglery! Thou hast given him a notable education, no doubt; and a fine varlet he will be to receive into any family. So you have nothing more to tell me about the child? ⁠Notting more.

⁠What a romantic visionary track that dear girl has pursued! Call her in, Paterson; I'll see the poor child now with more composure.⁠[Exit Paterson.
He is profitable to you, I suppose?

⁠He earn money for me; he is my living. ⁠I understand you, friend, and have no wish to do you any wrong. ​ ⁠See, my dear uncle. ⁠Very like; ay, very like, indeed. Look up, my pretty child; look in my face steadily.—Would I could certainly know who was thy mother!—(Turns away from him, and then returns and looks at him again.)—Be whose child thou may, thou art a creature worth cherishing. Give me thy hand. (Takes his hand and examines it.) The very form of her fingers and nails; they were particular. (Staggers back and sinks again into his chair, quite overcome.) ⁠My dear uncle, bear up cheerily. You see I have brought you what was well worth the bringing. ⁠Thou hast indeed, dear Fanny; and for thy sake, were the resemblance less, he shall live as a child in my family, and be taken from his present way of life. ​ ⁠I thank you, dear uncle. ⁠We have no reasonable proof of his parentage. ⁠I know not what you have learnt from Mr. Manhaunslet; but if this statement from the Genoese ambassador, in answer to the queries of Clermont, agree with it, you will have something of evidence to rest on. (Offering him a paper.) ⁠Read it thyself; I cannot—no, don't read it; tell me the substance of it; that will suffice. ⁠It says that Madame Martoni became the mother of a boy a few weeks before her death, and that Martoni, with the child, left Italy the year after to go into Bohemia, but from that time was never heard of more. ⁠If thou art her boy—if thou art, indeed.—O, that I were assured of it! ⁠Mrs. Brown, you said something about a gold heart which you took from his neck. ​ ⁠Yes, madam, I put it up when he was sick, for I thought Lady Worrymore would lay her hands upon it.—Here it is. (Giving a locket to Miss Frankland, who shows it to the Colonel). ⁠Do you know it, Sir?

⁠I do not. (To Manhaunslet.) Was it on the child when you first found him?

⁠It was rount his neck. It is ornament dat our women and oder countries' women do wear; de are sold in Italian and German fairs not greatly dear. ⁠It must be hollow; does it open? ⁠Not open. ⁠Let me look; perhaps it does. (Turning it round.) This little ornament may be a spring. (Presses and opens it.) ⁠Hast thou found any thing? ​ ⁠A small bit of paper enclosing this lock of hair. There, your honour.

⁠"A lock of my father's hair." It is written in her own small hand, and this is the very lock which she cut from my head when——Oh, oh! and she loved me to the last, though she wounded me so grievously! (Embraces Hugho again and again, then crosses the room hastily.) Come to my room presently, Fanny, and bring the boy with thee.⁠[Exit.

⁠Ha, Master Hugho! you be one gentleman now. ⁠And right glad to leave you, I think. ⁠No, Dame Brown; he fed, he clothed me, and did beat me very seldom. ⁠Except when the monkey and thee quarrelled, and then he always took part with that odious brute. ⁠Say no more of this, good Mrs. Brown: let every thing unpleasant be forgotten. Colonel ​Frankland will settle every thing to your satisfaction. (To Paterson.) Lead them to the housekeeper',s room, and take good care of them both. ⁠See you bote again: see you often, and glad of it. ⁠That is right, Hugho. And now you must come with me, and be a good child to your old grandfather. ⁠And good boy to you always; to love you, and bide wid you, and do all your bidding. O! I will tumble, and juggle, and sing to you all day long, if you will. (Wrapping himself fondly in the skirt of her gown, and clinging to her as they go off.)
⁠[Exeunt. ​

Lord Worrymore's Garden. Two Busts, covered with linen, in the back-ground, and Company assembled, amongst whom are discovered Lord Worrymore, Lady Shrewdly, &c. &c.

⁠Move the busts this way; this is the best possible spot for them. [Servants move the busts on their pedestals to the front of the Stage.] She will be here in a moment. But where is Blount? ⁠So the fair lady has unseated herself with her own busy hands, and torn from her own brow all the grace and honours of an heiress? ⁠It has indeed been her own doing. ⁠And a very foolish one, too: the age of romance has been long passed. ​ ⁠And will not be revived, I perceive, by Sir John Crofton. ⁠No, faith! the world, as it stands, is good enough for me. ⁠I have the honour to agree with you entirely upon that point. ⁠Find out a puny urchin to disinherit herself!—I have made a very narrow—I mean, any one who has thought of offering to her, has had a narrow escape. ⁠And if it be honourable, as well as narrow, you have reason to be pleased. ⁠Did she know of this brat and his birthrights this morning when I saw her? ⁠She suspected it then; and the expression you wore on your face, as I passed you on the stair, of a favoured lover, showed me plainly enough that you did not. ⁠Nay, Lady Shrewdly; you mistook that expression. ​ ⁠I should have understood it to mean, then, that you were not favoured. ⁠When it is necessary that Lady Shrewdly should be informed of my private affairs, I shall have the honour to answer her queries. ⁠And when such information can reflect any credit upon Sir John Crofton, I presume he will deem it necessary. Ha! Blount come at last: and not far behind comes Colonel Frankland and his niece.

Enter Colonel Frankland, leaning on Clermont and Miss Frankland; and Sir John Crofton, making them a distant bow, retires to the bottom of the Stage.

⁠I thank thee, Clermont: thy arm makes a good support for an old man. ⁠And is one always at your service, my dear Sir. ​ ⁠I thank thee, my good fellow. Thou art as kind as ever, and as simple, too, methinks; but how comes it that thy bust, as they tell me, is to be crowned with laurel for that sonnet of thine, which Fanny, to say the honest truth, has not praised much. ⁠How so? Not praised much. Ha! ha! ha! maiden prudery: just as it should be. ⁠It may be so; but she generally speaks as she thinks. ⁠Not praised it much! What faults does she find with it? ⁠There was something at the beginning, I forget what, which she said was very bad; and all that ball-room, bank, and bower business in the last line, she thinks is but wordy and cumbersome. ⁠Poo! poo! poo! all maiden prudery, Colonel. She will not—she will not be pleased with the poetry of a young fellow. ​ ⁠It may be so: and how comes he to have his bust made out so cleverly? To write rhymes one day, and be crowned for it the next, is marching quick-step time on the route of reputation. But here comes the Lady Paramount, and Bestower of Reputation, who should be painted with a trumpet in her mouth, like my Lady Fame. ⁠And so she ought. When her mind is unwarped by prejudice, nobody knows so well where praise is due. ⁠Most punctually assembled, and most welcome! I thank ye all, and beg your pardon for being so long in joining such friends; but, in truth, I could not be satisfied with the wreaths, which have been platted and unplatted, I don't know how often. And see there (pointing to the basket); they are not yet what I could wish. Laurels for this sublime circlet should have been fresher and brighter than our poor English climate ​did ever produce;—the myrtles for the other culled in the valley of Vaucluse itself. Indeed they are not worthy of their high destination. ⁠But from your fair hands, my Lady, is there either orator or poet who would not prize a garland of the simplest herbs? ⁠Yes, saintfoin, buttercups, or any thing. ⁠O, Mr. O'Honikin! could anyone but yourself, undervaluing your own excellence, have talked of this touching solemnity! O dear! what shall I say? My heart pants within me! Tears are forcing their way into my eyes! (Laying one hand on her breast affectedly, and the other on her eyes.) ⁠Forced work, indeed, I believe. ⁠She is really touched. This is very amiable, my dear cousin. ⁠Assuredly, my Lord, she has a true feeling of the honours belonging to genius. ​ ⁠You are right, my dear Lady Shrewdly: you understand me. O! did ever creature feel it so sensibly as I do! The very word genius sometimes makes me weep. (Putting her handkerchief to her eyes affectedly.) ⁠Well, my dear wife! it is very affecting; it almost brings tears into my own eyes. (Running from one person to another.) Is it not so?—Is it not very affecting?—Could almost cry myself.—Don't you feel it?—But come, my dear love! you delay the ceremony. ⁠It shall be delayed no longer.—Happy moment! sublime point of time! (Taking a wreath from the basket.) Thus, by an unworthy hand, is crowned the bust of personified Eloquence. ⁠Unveil that bust, fair lady: nothing but the hand of beauty, I suppose, must take part in such ministry. ​ ⁠There is some mistake here. What a stupid blunder to bring this bust here, instead of the right one! ⁠Ha! ha! ha! it is the right one, dear lady! it is the right one. ⁠Do you think to persuade me, my Lord, that is not the very bust which was taken of yourself six months ago by Mr. Thumbit? ⁠And is not the bust taken of his Lordship six months ago very fit to receive the honour earned by a speech written by him, probably about the same period? ⁠Fie! fie! Mr. O'Honikin! to attempt to deceive me, and wrong yourself; to pluck the eagle's feathers from your own outstretched wings, to stick them in the pinions of a—— ⁠Indeed, Madam, that very eloquent speech which I had the honour of reading to your Ladyship and this good company, is no more my own than this wig (taking off the wig), which I owe to the bounty of Lady Shrewdly. ​ ⁠Frank Blount of Herefordshire? ⁠The same, and your very humble servant. ⁠You were always full of nonsense and tricks; but this is past endurance. ⁠My dear Madam! can't you endure that the eloquence you have so ardently admired should belong to your own accomplished lord;—should be the produce, as one may say, of your own flesh and blood? ⁠Yes, my dear life! you must pardon both him and me: for, had you known the speech to be of my composition, you would not have done it justice, I fear.—Don't pout so, my dear! (in a soothing voice.) nay, don't pout. I like you for admiring what is good, let the author of it be who he may. He! he! he! he! ⁠And because the orator has received his due, must the poet go unhonoured? Mr. Clermont there is waiting to see his bust served with its garland also; and as there is no wig on his head, your Ladyship cannot be deceived in that quarter. ​ ⁠And ladies, you know, my love, are reckoned better judges of poetry than speeches; though the present company, I believe, will reckon you rather a capricious, than a bad judge of either. ⁠I feel,—what I ought to have acknowledged before,—that the tremour of my nerves has rendered me quite unfit, for the last twelve hours—O, much longer—to judge of any thing. It is better for me to take care of my own fragile frame, than to concern myself with what is, perhaps, beyond the power of my poor capacity. ⁠Why, your Ladyship's capacity never showed itself more undoubtedly than on the present interesting occasion. Had you praised the speech which I had the honour of reading, as the composition of Lord Worrymore, the partiality of a wife might have been suspected. ⁠Very true, he! he! he! Well urged, Blount.—And now, Mr. Clermont, come nearer to us, and witness the honour conferred on the writer of the sonnet.—My dear love! where is the other wreath? ​ ⁠Nay, my Lady, don't let the writer of that beautiful sonnet be curtailed of his honours, because of my delinquency. It were an insult to the whole nine Muses to send poetry away uncrowned, when prose has been so nobly rewarded. ⁠Pray, don't urge it. Her Ladyship, perhaps, thinks such poetry unworthy to be ranked with such prose; and we ought not to—— ⁠By no means, Mr. Clermont; by no means. The merit of that beautiful sonnet cannot be affected in my estimation by any adventitious circumstances. ⁠That's right, Lady Worrymore; let every thing rest on its own merit, he! he! he! That is the golden rule to go by. ⁠Now do you unveil that bust, Miss Frankland. Ha! you retire behind backs, and won't do it.—I'll do it myself, then, though I be but an ​unseemly minister in such elegancies. (Gives Lady Worrymore the wreath, and then, as she is raising it, uncovers the other bust of her Lord.) Put it on; put it on, my Lady. This is also the bust of the real poet who penned that delectable sonnet, and must not be defrauded of its due. ⁠I can bear such provoking insults no longer. ⁠Devil take it! You have scratched my face with your twigs. ⁠I wish they had all been thorn and bramble for your sake. (Turns away indignantly.) ⁠My dear Lady Worrymore! how can you take it so much to heart? ⁠And you too, Madam, have been in the plot against me. A very becoming occupation for a neighbour and a friend! ⁠My dear Ma'am! was it possible for us to ​suppose that we prepared for you any other than an agreeable surprise? You won the heart and hand of your dear Lord by sensibility to his merit; and has that merit become less dear to you, when the glory derived from it is reflected upon yourself? ⁠Ay, very sensible; very well put, my good cousin. The glory is reflected on herself, and she casts it from her, like a spoilt child who likes every urchin's playthings better than his own. Come, come, dear life; you did think that sonnet a clever thing, and you do think it, I know you do. ⁠Keep that knowledge to yourself then, my Lord; it will but make us both very absurd. ⁠Nay, nay, nay! (Following her to the bottom of the stage, speaking to her in dumb show till they disappear amongst the company there.) ⁠You did not appear very sorry for my disappointment. ⁠It cost me few tears, I confess. And you ​take it composedly, too, considering how much enthusiastic admiration you have been deprived of at one stroke. But was there not really a sonnet of your writing sent to Lady Worrymore? ⁠I blush to say there was. But Blount's waggery has proved my friend. He gave her that written by her own husband in its stead. ⁠And what has become of it? ⁠It is burnt, gentle friend, and shall disturb you no more. ⁠And of what importance can it now be, whether I am disturbed by it or not? ⁠Of more importance than ever; since your good opinion is more necessary to my happiness than it has ever been before. I know the generosity of your feelings, which has stirred up a quarrel between us, that I might on your change of circumstances feel myself a free man, without reproach or censure. But you will not find it so easy to get rid of me, dear Fanny, as of your fortune. ​ ⁠And who says she has got rid of her fortune? ⁠I beg pardon, Colonel Frankland, for alluding to such matters; but you have now found an heir in your own descendant, and it is natural that it should be so. ⁠And I'll wager a crown, now, you both wish to have it so, that you may make a romantic match of it, and live on that bare estate on the mountains of Cumberland. But I hate romance; and unless you make up your mind to have her with the half of my moveable property as her dowry, you sha'n't have her at all. ⁠My dear Sir, the boy is your grandchild. ⁠And if he were so ten times over, shall I ever suffer a little imp like him to be dearer to me than this generous girl? (Putting their hands together.) Now, keep ye good friends, and quarrel no more. And—but a truce to good advice at present; for here are our two bubbles of vanity returned again, inflated still with air enough to keep them buoyant on the ​whirlpool of vanity for months or years to come. ⁠Give me joy, give me joy, my friends! Lady Worrymore has pardoned our frolic; and I believe there is nobody here, who will think less favourably of her taste and her judgment for the mistakes of this day. ⁠Assuredly not. A wife who has taste and capacity enough to admire the talents and genius of her own husband, is most happily endowed. ⁠Well said; he—he—he! very happily endowed. (To Lady Worrymore.) Don't you think so, my love? ⁠I suppose she will be reckoned so.

⁠[Scene closes.