Lavinia shook her head and cast down her eyes.

"Left school," repeated Gay lifting his wig slightly and rubbing his temple. "Surely--surely you haven't misbehaved and have been expelled.

Miss Pinwell I know is the perfection of prim propriety, but----"

"Quite true, sir, so she is," burst out Lavinia impetuously, "and I've done nothing wicked--not really wicked--only silly, but I'm sure Miss Pinwell wouldn't take me back. You see, sir, I--oh well, I suppose I must confess I ran away--I meant to return and n.o.body would have been the wiser--but things happened that I didn't expect and--and oh, I do hope you'll forgive me."

Lavinia's pleading voice quivered. Her eyes were fixed imploringly on Gay. Tears were glistening in them, the pose of her figure suggested a delightful penitence. The susceptible poet felt his emotions stirred.

"Forgive you? But you haven't told me what I am to forgive. You ran away from school you say. What made you? Had you quarrelled with anyone?"

"Oh no--not then--the quarrel was after I left the school."

"After--hang me if I understand. Whom did you quarrel with?"

"The--the person I--I ran away with."

Lavinia's confession was uttered in the softest of whispers. It was inaudible to anyone save Gay. Her face had suddenly become scarlet.

"The per--oh, there's a mystery here. Mr. Pope--gentlemen," Gay went on turning to the others, "will you excuse me if I draw apart with our young madam. She has propounded to me an enigma which must be solved."

"And if you fail--as you will if the enigma is a woman's--call us to thine aid," said Arbuthnot laughingly.

Gay shook his head and he and Lavinia paced the lawn.

"It's no use asking you to tell me everything, Polly, because you can't do it. Your s.e.x never do. You're like spendthrifts who are asked to disclose all their debts. They always keep the heaviest one back. Tell me as much or as little as you please or nothing at all, if it likes you better."

Lavinia hesitated, and at first her tale was a halting one enough, but seeing no sign of anger in Gay's amiable countenance, she became more courageous, and substantially she said all that was necessary to make her companion acquainted with her list of peccadilloes.

"Zooks, my young miss," quoth Gay after the solace of a pinch of snuff.

"It seemeth to me that you've begun to flutter your pinions sufficiently early. Two love affairs on your hands within twenty-four hours. Mighty fine, upon my word."

"Oh, but they are _not_ love affairs," protested Lavinia. "I didn't love Mr. Dorrimore a bit. I never want to see him again. And as for Mr.

Vane, never a word of love has pa.s.sed between us."

"Bless your innocence. Are words the only signs of love? Permit me to inform you, Polly, that I look upon your love adventure with Lancelot Vane as a much more serious business than your elopement with a profligate fop."

"Indeed, it is serious, Mr. Gay. It's worse than serious--it's tragic.

If you could see the wretched place poor Mr. Vane lives in, if you knew how he is wanting for food----"

"And drink--is he wanting for that too?" interposed Gay sarcastically.

Lavinia made no answer. She thought of Lancelot at the Chapter Coffee House the night before and her face clouded.

"I'll give you a word of advice, Polly. If you're going to be a nice woman and want to keep your peace of mind, never fall in love with a poet, a playwright or indeed any man who takes his pen in hand for a living."

"But, sir--aren't you a poet and don't you write plays?"

"Exactly, and that's why I'm warning you. _Ex uno disce omnes_, which you may like to know means, we're all tarred with the same brush."

"And do you drink too much, sir?" inquired Lavinia with an engaging simplicity.

"Gad, not oftener than I can help. But we were talking about falling in love and that has nothing to do with my drinking habits. About Mr.

Vane's--well, that's a different matter. You haven't fallen in love with me and you have with a clever young man who's going as fast as he can to the deuce."

"I don't know, sir, whether you're laughing at me or telling me the truth, but--Mr. Vane risked his life for me."

"And to reward him you're thinking of trusting him with yours. A pretty guardian--a man who can't take care of his own!"

"Oh, you're wrong, Mr. Gay--indeed, you are. Mr. Vane is nothing to me.

I'm only sorry for him."

"Of course--of course. That's the first step. You begin by being sorry for your sweetheart and you end by being sorry for yourself. Well--well, a woman must go her own way or she wouldn't be a woman. What have you there?"

Lavinia was holding out a parcel.

"'Tis a play, sir, that Mr. Vane has written."

"And why did he write it? Who asked him? Who wants plays?"

"I--I don't know," Lavinia stammered dismally. She felt her ardour was being damped. "Mr. Vane begged me to bring it to you, sir, and I couldn't refuse, could I? It was this way. I told him you were my friend--and you are, aren't you?--and he was overjoyed."

"Overjoyed? What in the name of Heaven about?"

"Mr. Vane thought that if I took the play to you and asked you to read it you would be sure to say you would."

"Mr. Vane had no business to think anything of the kind. Doesn't he know that nothing in this world can be taken for granted? I've committed the folly myself too often not to know that placing faith in other people is vanity and vexation."

"Yes, sir. But you'll read Mr. Vane's play all the same, won't you?"

"What a wheedling baggage it is," muttered Gay.

And he held the parcel and resisted the impulse to give it back to Lavinia and to tell her that he had neither time nor inclination to read other men's plays. His own play was sufficient for him at that moment.

CHAPTER XIII

"I'M FIXED ON POLLY PEACHUM"

Lavinia saw she had nearly conquered and cried:--"Let me untie the knot.

I was sure you would not say no."

Gay was like wax in her hands. He permitted her to s.n.a.t.c.h the parcel and attack the knot. Between her deft fingers and pearly teeth she had the string off and the parcel open in a trice. She held the ma.n.u.script under Gay's nose. He could not help seeing the t.i.tle, writ large as it was.

"Love's Blindness: A Tragedy in Five Acts. By Lancelot Vane," he read with a rueful look. "Mercy on me, Polly, you never told me it was a tragedy. Oh, this is very--very sad."

"But Mr. Gay, aren't all tragedies sad?"