Quick, Stephen, your master and these
gentlemen are impatient."
The man hastened away to the house and presently was seen crossing the
lawn with Lavinia by his side.
"'Faith, you've good taste, Mr. Gay," said Arbuthnot with a chuckle. "A
trim built wench, upon my word. And she knows how to walk. She hasn't
the mincing gait of the city madams of the Exchange nor the flaunting
strut of the dames of the Mall or the Piazza."
Gay made no reply. The girl's carriage and walk were indeed natural and
there was something in both which was familiar to him. But he could not
fix them. He would have to wait until the sheltering hood was raised and
the face revealed.
This came about when Lavinia was a couple of yards or so from the man.
Gay bent forward and rose slightly from his chair. An expression half
startled, half puzzled stole over his face.
"Gad! Polly--or am I dreaming?"
"Lavinia sir," came the demure answer accompanied by a drooping of the
long lashes and a low curtsey.
"Lavinia of course, but to me always Polly. Gentlemen, this is Miss
Lavinia Fenton, the nightingale I once told you of."
"Aye," rejoined Pope, "I remember. She was flying wild in the fragrant
groves of St. Giles and you limed her. Good. Now that she's here she
must give us a sample of her powers. I pray that your nightingale, Mr.
Gay, be not really a guinea fowl. Your good nature might easily make you
imagine one to be the other.
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