His stockings were dirty and hung in bags about
his ankles, his feet were cased in yellow slippers more than half worn
out.
Dr. Mountchance's hearing was keen. A footfall in the shop, soft as it
was, caused him to look up. He saw a slight girlish figure, her cloak
pulled tightly about her, a pair of bright eyes peering from beneath the
hood.
The old man gave a grunt of dissatisfaction. Many of his customers were
women but he liked them none the more because of their sex. They
generally came to sell, not to buy, and most of them knew how to drive a
hard bargain. He shuffled into the shop with a scowl on his lined yellow
face.
"What d'ye want?" he growled.
Most girls would have been nervous at such a reception. Not so this one.
"I want to sell this brooch. How much will you give me for it?" said
she, undauntedly.
"Don't want to buy it. Go somewhere else."
"I shan't. Too much trouble. Besides, you're going to buy it, dear Dr.
Mountchance."
The imploring eyes, the beseeching voice, soft and musical, the modest
yet assured manner, were too much for the old man. Unconscious of the
destiny awaiting her, Lavinia was employing the same tenderness of look,
the same captivating pathos of tone as when two years later she, as
Polly Peachum, sang "Oh ponder well," and won the heart of the Duke of
Bolton.
"H'm, h'm," grunted Mountchance, "you pretty witch.
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