But for Miss's ditty. We're all attention."
"What shall I sing, sir?" Lavinia whispered to Gay.
"Anything you like, my child, so long as you acquit yourself to Dr.
Pepusch's satisfaction."
"But I would love to have your choice too. What of 'My Lodging is on the
Cold Ground?' My music master told me this was the song that made King
Charles fall in love with Mistress Moll Davies. So I learned it."
"Odso. Of course you did. Then let old Pepusch look out. Nothing could
be better. Aye, it is indeed a sweet tune."
Lavinia retired a few paces on to the lawn, dropped naturally into a
simple pose and for a minute or two imagined herself back in the streets
where she sang without effort and without any desire to create effect.
She sang the pathetic old air--much better fitted to the words than the
so-called Irish melody of a later date--with delightful artlessness.
"What think you, doctor?" whispered Gay to Pepusch. "Can you see her as
Polly--not Peggy mind ye--I'm fixed on Polly Peachum."
"De girl ver goot voice has. But dat one song--it tell me noting. Can
she Haendel sing?"
"That I know not, but I'll warrant she'll not be a dunce with Purcell.
And you must admit, doctor, that your George Frederick Handel is much
beholden to our Henry Purcell."
"Vat?" cried Pepusch a little angrily. "Nein--nein. Haendel the greatest
composer of music in de vorld is.
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