It angered him sorely
that she had a smile for others. But he bore her no malice, or he would
hardly have written his poetical tribute commencing:--
"Dear, thoughtless Clara, to my verse attend,
Believe for once the lover and the friend."
So Gay's words were unheeded. A heavy step sounded on the sanded floor.
A big man with features formed on an ample mould had entered. Gay was
entranced by the singer and did not hear him. The newcomer stood
silently behind the poet. He too, was listening intently.
The girl's voice died into a cadence. Gay beckoned to her and she came
up to the window.
"Finely sung, Polly," cried Gay. "Who taught thee, child?"
"I taught myself, sir," said she dropping a curtsey.
"Then you had a good teacher. There's a crown for you."
"Oh sir ... it's too much."
"Nay, Polly--if your name isn't Polly it ought to be. What does your
mother call you?"
"Mostly an idle slut, sir."
Her face remained unmoved save her eyes, which danced with sly
merriment.
The men at the window burst into a roar of laughter. He who had entered
last laughed the loudest and deepest, and loud and deep as was that
laugh it was full of music. At its sound Gay turned sharply.
"What? Dick Leveridge? You've come at the right moment. We need someone
who knows good music when he hears it. What of this pretty child's
voice. Is it good?"
"Is it good? I'll answer your question, Mr.
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