He had washed, he had shaved, he had put on his best suit and his wig concealed the cut on his forehead. He was altogether a different Lancelot from the bedraggled, woe-begone, haggard young man whom she had found in the last stage of misery two hours ago. He had moreover, enlisted the help of the old woman whom Lavinia had met on the stairs at her first visit and the place was swept and tidied. The room as well as its occupant was now quite presentable. "I've brought you something to eat," stammered Lavinia quite shyly to her own surprise. "You don't mind, do you?" "Not if you'll do me the honour to share it with me." "Oh, but it will give you so much trouble. And I'm not hungry. I bought it all for you." Lavinia was busy emptying the contents of a rush basket which the good-natured landlord of the "Green Dragon" had given her. "Have you a plate and a knife and fork? You can't eat with your fingers, you know." "I've two plates and two knives and forks, but the knives are not pairs. I apologise humbly for my poverty stricken household." "That doesn't matter. I'm not going to touch a morsel." "Neither am I then. And it isn't my hospitality, remember, but yours. Why are you such a good Samaritan?" "You were brave and fought for me. I shall never forget last night--never." "It will always be in my memory too, and I want our first meal together to be in my memory also. Alas! I have no tablecloth." "But you have plenty of paper," Lavinia laughingly said. "That will do as well." Lancelot laughed in unison and seizing a couple of sheets of foolscap he opened and spread them on the table. "One for you and one for me, but you see I've put them together," said he with a roguish gleam in his eye. "No, they must be separate." But he had his way. Soon the banquet was ready and it delighted Lavinia to see how ravenously the young man ate. At the same time it pained her for it told of days of privation. Before long they were perfectly at ease and merrily chatting about nothing in particular, under some circumstances the best kind of talk. Suddenly he said: "I'm wondering where my next meal is to come from. I can't expect an angel to visit me every day." "Perhaps it will be a raven. Didn't ravens feed Elijah?" said Lavinia mockingly. "I believe so, but I'm not Elijah. I'm not even a prophet. I'm only a poor scribbler." "You write plays, don't you?" "I've written one but I'm afraid it's poor stuff. I meant to show it to Mr. Gay the great poet. I was told he was often to be found at the Maiden Head in St. Giles, but unluckily I was persuaded by some friends to see Jack Sheppard's last exploit at Tyburn. I drank too much--I own it to my shame--and when I reached the inn where I hoped to see Mr. Gay I fell dead asleep and never saw him. He had gone when I awoke."