"Zooks, my young miss," quoth Gay after the solace of a pinch of snuff. "It seemeth to me that you've begun to flutter your pinions sufficiently early. Two love affairs on your hands within twenty-four hours. Mighty fine, upon my word." "Oh, but they are _not_ love affairs," protested Lavinia. "I didn't love Mr. Dorrimore a bit. I never want to see him again. And as for Mr. Vane, never a word of love has passed between us." "Bless your innocence. Are words the only signs of love? Permit me to inform you, Polly, that I look upon your love adventure with Lancelot Vane as a much more serious business than your elopement with a profligate fop." "Indeed, it is serious, Mr. Gay. It's worse than serious--it's tragic. If you could see the wretched place poor Mr. Vane lives in, if you knew how he is wanting for food----" "And drink--is he wanting for that too?" interposed Gay sarcastically. Lavinia made no answer. She thought of Lancelot at the Chapter Coffee House the night before and her face clouded. "I'll give you a word of advice, Polly. If you're going to be a nice woman and want to keep your peace of mind, never fall in love with a poet, a playwright or indeed any man who takes his pen in hand for a living." "But, sir--aren't you a poet and don't you write plays?" "Exactly, and that's why I'm warning you. _Ex uno disce omnes_, which you may like to know means, we're all tarred with the same brush." "And do you drink too much, sir?" inquired Lavinia with an engaging simplicity. "Gad, not oftener than I can help. But we were talking about falling in love and that has nothing to do with my drinking habits. About Mr. Vane's--well, that's a different matter. You haven't fallen in love with me and you have with a clever young man who's going as fast as he can to the deuce." "I don't know, sir, whether you're laughing at me or telling me the truth, but--Mr. Vane risked his life for me." "And to reward him you're thinking of trusting him with yours. A pretty guardian--a man who can't take care of his own!" "Oh, you're wrong, Mr. Gay--indeed, you are. Mr. Vane is nothing to me. I'm only sorry for him." "Of course--of course. That's the first step. You begin by being sorry for your sweetheart and you end by being sorry for yourself. Well--well, a woman must go her own way or she wouldn't be a woman. What have you there?" Lavinia was holding out a parcel. "'Tis a play, sir, that Mr. Vane has written." "And why did he write it? Who asked him? Who wants plays?" "I--I don't know," Lavinia stammered dismally. She felt her ardour was being damped. "Mr. Vane begged me to bring it to you, sir, and I couldn't refuse, could I? It was this way. I told him you were my friend--and you are, aren't you?--and he was overjoyed." "Overjoyed? What in the name of Heaven about?" "Mr. Vane thought that if I took the play to you and asked you to read it you would be sure to say you would."