Didn't ravens feed Elijah?" said Lavinia
mockingly.
"I believe so, but I'm not Elijah. I'm not even a prophet. I'm only a
poor scribbler."
"You write plays, don't you?"
"I've written one but I'm afraid it's poor stuff. I meant to show it to
Mr. Gay the great poet. I was told he was often to be found at the
Maiden Head in St. Giles, but unluckily I was persuaded by some friends
to see Jack Sheppard's last exploit at Tyburn. I drank too much--I own
it to my shame--and when I reached the inn where I hoped to see Mr. Gay
I fell dead asleep and never saw him. He had gone when I awoke."
Lavinia clasped her hands. A shadow passed over her bright face leaving
it sad and pensive. The red mobile lips were tremulous and the eyes
moist and shining. She now knew why Lancelot Vane's features had seemed
so familiar to her. But not for worlds would she let him know she had
seen him in his degradation.
Besides she too had memories of that day she would like to forget--save
the remembrance of her meeting with Gay and his kindness to her, a
kindness which she felt she had repaid with folly and ingratitude.
"Then you know Mr. Gay?" said she presently.
"I was introduced to him by Spiller the actor one night at the Lamb and
Flag, Clare Market--I'll warrant you don't know Clare Market; 'tis a
dirty greasy ill-smelling place where everyone seems to be a
butcher----"
Lavinia said nothing.
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