Shortly after Lavinia set out on her way to Grub Street. Lancelot Vane was pacing Moor Fields--a depressing tract of land, the grass trodden down here and there into bare patches, thanks to the games of the London 'prentices and gambols of children--in company with Edmund Curll, the most scurrilous and audacious of writers and booksellers who looked upon standing on the pillory, which he had had to do more than once, more as a splendid form of advertisement than as a degradation. "You can write what I want if you chose--no man better," he was saying. Vane was listening not altogether attentively. His thoughts were elsewhere. "And supposing I don't choose." "Then you'll be an arrant fool," sneered Curll angrily. "You're out at elbows. You haven't a penny to bless yourself with. You don't eat, but you can always drink provided you run across a friend who by chance has some money in his pocket. What'll be the end of it all? You'll go down--down among the dregs of Grub Street and you'll never rise again." "Not so, Mr. Curll," cried Vane hotly. "I've great hopes. I've a tragedy----" "A tragedy! _That_ for your tragedy." Curll snapped his fingers scornfully. "Why, my young friend, supposing you get your tragedy staged, it will be played one night--if extraordinarily successful two nights, or three at the most. What do you think you will get out of it? Nothing. But perhaps you fancy yourself a Congreve or a Farquhar?" "Neither Congreve nor Farquhar wrote tragedies, sir," retorted Vane stiffly. "Indeed! What about Mr. Congreve's 'Mourning Bride?'" "I prefer his comedies, sir." "And so do I, but that's nothing to the point. May be you consider that you're equal to Mr. Otway or even Mr. Cibber, I leave Mr. Gay out of the count. He's written nothing that's likely to live and never will. He's too lazy." "You dislike Mr. Gay, 'tis well known, because he's Mr. Pope's friend. I do not and that's my objection to writing for you. I doubt not you would ask me to attack the most talented men of the age simply because you hate them or you want to air some grievance." "You're wrong. I do it to sell my books and put money in my pocket. If you write for me you won't be called upon to express your own opinions. All you have to do is to express mine and keep your body and soul together comfortably. You can't do that now and the two'll part company before long unless you alter. You were not so squeamish last night at the Chapter Coffee House." "There was a reason for that. I was full of wine and hardly knew what I was saying." "I'll warrant you didn't. That same wine, let me tell you, will be your undoing. Now that your head is clear you'd better think over my offer. It will at least provide you with a more decent coat and wig than those you're wearing. A young man should dress smartly. What's his life worth to him unless women look kindly upon him? Do you expect they care for a shabby gallant?" Vane was silent. Some of Curll's words had gone home.