She knew Clare Market perfectly well.
"Mr. Gay was good enough to look at some poems I had with me. He praised
them and I told him I'd written a play and he said he would like to see
it. And then--but you know what happened. I feel I daren't face him
again after disgracing myself so. What must he think of me?"
"He'll forgive you," cried Lavinia enthusiastically. "He's the dearest,
the kindest, the most generous hearted man in the world. He is my best
friend and----"
She stopped. She was on the point of plunging into her history and there
was no necessity for doing this. She had not said a word to Lancelot
Vane about herself and she did not intend to do so. He must think what
he pleased about the adventure which had brought them together. He must
have seen her leap from Dorrimore's carriage--nay, he may have caught
sight of Dorrimore himself. Then there was the ruffian of a coachman who
had pursued her. The reason of the fellow's anxiety to capture her must
have puzzled Vane. Well, it must continue to puzzle him.
"Mr. Gay your friend?" returned Vane with a pang of envy. "Ah, then,
you're indeed fortunate. I--you've been such a benefactor to me, madam,
that I hesitate to ask another favour of you."
All familiarity had fled from him. He seemed to be no longer on an
equality with her. He was diffident, he was respectful. If this girl was
a friend of Mr. Gay the distinguished poet and dramatist whose latest
work, "The Fables," was being talked about at Button's, at Wills', at
every coffee-house where the wits gathered, she must be somebody in the
world of fashion and letters.
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