All that she knew was that she disliked the man at first
sight, while his vile speech made her ears tingle with shame. Despite
the danger possibly awaiting her in the gloom of Paternoster Row she
would have fled had not the sight of one of the group at the table
rooted her to the spot.
This was Lancelot Vane whom her maiden fancy had elevated into a god
endowed with all the virtues and laden with misfortunes which had so
drawn him towards her. Vane--alas that it should have to be written--had
taken much wine--far too much!
Lavinia knew the signs. Often in the old days in St. Giles had she seen
them--the eyes unnaturally bright, the face unnaturally flushed, the
laugh unnaturally empty. And she had pictured Vane so sad, so depressed!
The sight of him thus came upon her as a shock.
At first she was angry and then full of excuses for him. It was not his
fault, she argued, but that of his companions and especially of the
squint-eyed, foul-tongued man who no sooner saw that the bottle was
getting low than he ordered another one.
What could she do to help him? Nothing. He was out of her reach. She
remembered how he looked when she first saw him at the Maiden Head inn.
He would probably look like that again before the night was ended. She
could not bear to gaze upon him as he was now and she crept away with
the old wives' words in her mind--Providence looks after drunken men and
babes.
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