You descended upon me like an angel. Not many
young ladies of your station would have had the courage to set foot in
Grub Street."
A smile trembled on Lavinia's tempting lips.
"My station? What then do you think is my station?"
"How can I tell? I take you to be a lady, madam. I don't want to know
any more."
At this Lavinia laughed outright. Her clothes were of good quality and
of fashionable cut--the Duchess of Queensberry's maid had seen to
that--her manner and air were those of a lady of quality--thanks to Miss
Pinwell--but apart from these externals what was she? A coffee shop
waitress--a strolling singer--a waif and stray whose mother would not
break her heart if she got her living on the streets!
When she thought of the bitter truth the laughing face was clouded.
"I wish I were a lady--a rich one, I mean--for your sake," said she
softly. "You look so ill. You ought to have a doctor."
"I ought to have a good many things, I daresay, that I haven't got. I
have to do without."
Her eyes drooped. They remained fixed on a little gold brooch fastening
her cloak. The brooch was the gift of Dorrimore. The wonder was her
mother had not discovered it.
"I must go. I--I've forgotten something."
"But you'll come again, wont you?" said he imploringly. "Though to be
sure there's nothing in this hovel to tempt you? Besides, the difference
between us----"
"Please don't talk nonsense," she broke in.
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