Peggy
Peachum, but it doesn't please me. I----"

At that moment Pope caught sight of his man fidgetting first on one foot
and then on the other.

"What d'ye want sirrah?" demanded the poet irritably.

"A young girl, sir, desires to see Mr. Gay. She couldn't tell me her
business with him."

A roar of laughter was heard, in the midst of which Gay looked puzzled
and a trifle foolish.

"Oh poor Gay, to think thy light damsels cannot let thee alone but must
follow thee to my pure Eve-less abode," said Pope mockingly.

"Nay, 'tis nothing of the kind. You accuse me unjustly. I know no light
o' love. To prove it your servant shall bring the girl here and you may
see her for yourself. I've no love secrets."

"What if you had, man? No one would blame you. Not I for one. Get as
much enjoyment as you can out of life, but not in excess. 'Tis excess
that kills," said Arbuthnot laying his hand on Gay's.

There was a meaning in the contact which emphasised the doctor's words.
Self indulgence was Gay's failing as all his friends knew.

"Well--well," rejoined Gay somewhat embarrassed. "Be it so, I--conduct
the girl hither--have I your permission, Mr. Pope?"

"With all my heart--provided she's worth looking at."

"I know nothing of her looks. Quick, Stephen, your master and these
gentlemen are impatient."

The man hastened away to the house and presently was seen crossing the
lawn with Lavinia by his side.

"'Faith, you've good taste, Mr. Gay," said Arbuthnot with a chuckle. "A
trim built wench, upon my word. And she knows how to walk. She hasn't
the mincing gait of the city madams of the Exchange nor the flaunting
strut of the dames of the Mall or the Piazza."

Gay made no reply. The girl's carriage and walk were indeed natural and
there was something in both which was familiar to him. But he could not
fix them. He would have to wait until the sheltering hood was raised and
the face revealed.

This came about when Lavinia was a couple of yards or so from the man.
Gay bent forward and rose slightly from his chair. An expression half
startled, half puzzled stole over his face.

"Gad! Polly--or am I dreaming?"

"Lavinia sir," came the demure answer accompanied by a drooping of the
long lashes and a low curtsey.

"Lavinia of course, but to me always Polly. Gentlemen, this is Miss
Lavinia Fenton, the nightingale I once told you of."

"Aye," rejoined Pope, "I remember. She was flying wild in the fragrant
groves of St.