Then she went deadly pale, she tore the
paper in half and--a rare thing for Lavinia to do--she burst into tears.
CHAPTER XXI
"IF WE FIGHT.... WHAT SAY YOU TO LAVINIA FENTON?"
The big room of the "Angel and Sun" hard by Cripples Gate was the scene
of loud talk, louder laughter and the clank of pewter mugs on the solid
oaken table. The fat landlord, divested of his wig, which he only wore
on high days and holidays, was rubbing his shiny pate with satisfaction.
The Grub Street writers were his best customers, and when they had money
in their pockets they were uneasy until it was gone.
The room was low pitched; its big chimney beams projected so much that
it behoved a tall man to be careful of his movements; it was full of
dark shadows thrown by the two candles in iron sconces on the walls; a
high settle was on either side of the fire in front of which stood the
bow-legged host, his eyes beaming on the rapidly emptying bottles.
A slight sound, a movement, caused the landlord to glance towards the
door. A stranger had entered. He was not of the Grub Street fraternity.
He had too much swagger. His clothes were too fine, despite their
tawdriness, his sword hilt too much in evidence. What could be seen of
his dark face, the upper half of which his slouched hat concealed, was
rather that of a fighter than of a writer. The landlord summed up the
signs of a swashbuckler and approached him deferentially.
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