"Well I--I opened the other end of the purse and read what was on the papers inside. It was very wrong. You'll forgive me, won't you?" "I'd forgive you anything. You descended upon me like an angel. Not many young ladies of your station would have had the courage to set foot in Grub Street." A smile trembled on Lavinia's tempting lips. "My station? What then do you think is my station?" "How can I tell? I take you to be a lady, madam. I don't want to know any more." At this Lavinia laughed outright. Her clothes were of good quality and of fashionable cut--the Duchess of Queensberry's maid had seen to that--her manner and air were those of a lady of quality--thanks to Miss Pinwell--but apart from these externals what was she? A coffee shop waitress--a strolling singer--a waif and stray whose mother would not break her heart if she got her living on the streets! When she thought of the bitter truth the laughing face was clouded. "I wish I were a lady--a rich one, I mean--for your sake," said she softly. "You look so ill. You ought to have a doctor." "I ought to have a good many things, I daresay, that I haven't got. I have to do without." Her eyes drooped. They remained fixed on a little gold brooch fastening her cloak. The brooch was the gift of Dorrimore. The wonder was her mother had not discovered it. "I must go. I--I've forgotten something." "But you'll come again, wont you?" said he imploringly. "Though to be sure there's nothing in this hovel to tempt you? Besides, the difference between us----" "Please don't talk nonsense," she broke in. "Yes, I'll come again soon. I don't know how long I shall be--a couple of hours perhaps." "Do you really mean that?" he cried, joyfully. "Yes, if nothing happens to prevent me. Good-bye for a while." She waved her hand. He caught the tips of her fingers and kissed them. One bright smile in response and she was gone. With her heart fluttering strangely--a fluttering that Dorrimore had never been able to inspire--Lavinia flew down the staircase and sped through the streets in the direction of London Bridge. CHAPTER VIII "YOU'VE A MIGHTY COAXING TONGUE" The shop on London Bridge of Dr. Mountchance, apothecary, astrologer, dealer in curios and sometimes money lender and usurer, was in its way picturesque and quaint, but to most tastes would scarcely be called inviting. Bottles of all shapes and sizes loaded the shelves, mingled with jars and vases from China, Delft ware from Holland and plates and dishes from France, which Dr. Mountchance swore were the handiwork of Palissy, the famous artist-potter. Everything had a thick coating of dust. Dried skins of birds, animals and hideous reptiles hung from the walls and ceiling; a couple of skulls grinned mockingly above a doorway leading into a little room at the rear, and it was difficult to steer one's way between the old furniture, the iron bound coffers and miscellaneous articles which crowded the shop.