And during the last six months, with good food, regular hours
and systematic drilling, she had shot up half a head. She was a grown
woman, and she felt instinctively that as such and with the winsome face
Nature had bestowed upon her, singing outside taverns would be
considered by men as a blind for something else. In addition she looked
back upon her former occupation with loathing. It could not be denied
that she was in an awkward plight.
She was so absorbed that she did not hear Vane who finished tieing up
the packet speaking to her. Suddenly she became aware of his voice and
she turned to him in some confusion.
"I beg your pardon. You were saying----"
"Pardon my presumption, I was asking whether I might have the privilege
of knowing your name."
"Oh yes. Lavinia Fenton. But that's all I can tell you. You mustn't ask
where I live."
"I'm not curious. I'm quite contented with what you choose to let me
know."
"And with that little are you quite sure you'll trust me with your play?
Suppose I lose it or am robbed?"
"I must take my chance. I've a rough draft of the whole and also all the
parts written out separately. I wouldn't think of doubting you. But do
you know where to find Mr. Gay?"
"Oh yes. He lives at the house of his friend, Her Grace the Duchess of
Queensberry."
"That is so," rejoined Vane in a tone of evident relief. Her answer
convinced him that what she said about knowing Gay was true.
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