not. But one never knows. A pretty face--a pretty
voice--an air--faith, such gifts may work wonders. But let us keep Mr.
Pope waiting no longer."

They approached the table beneath the cedar tree.

"Sir," said Gay with a bow to Pope, "I've prevailed upon my young madam
here to give us a taste of her quality. I trust your twittering birds
won't be provoked to rivalry. Happily their season of song is past."

"I warn you Mr. Gay, the age of miracles is _not_ past. What if the work
you're toiling at sends the present taste of the town into a
summersault? Would not that be a miracle?"

"You think then that my 'Beggar's Opera' won't do," broke in Gay, his
face losing a little of its colour.

"You know my views. It is something unlike anything ever written
before--a leap in the dark. But for Miss's ditty. We're all attention."

"What shall I sing, sir?" Lavinia whispered to Gay.

"Anything you like, my child, so long as you acquit yourself to Dr.
Pepusch's satisfaction."

"But I would love to have your choice too. What of 'My Lodging is on the
Cold Ground?' My music master told me this was the song that made King
Charles fall in love with Mistress Moll Davies. So I learned it."

"Odso. Of course you did. Then let old Pepusch look out. Nothing could
be better. Aye, it is indeed a sweet tune."

Lavinia retired a few paces on to the lawn, dropped naturally into a
simple pose and for a minute or two imagined herself back in the streets
where she sang without effort and without any desire to create effect.
She sang the pathetic old air--much better fitted to the words than the
so-called Irish melody of a later date--with delightful artlessness.

"What think you, doctor?" whispered Gay to Pepusch. "Can you see her as
Polly--not Peggy mind ye--I'm fixed on Polly Peachum."

"De girl ver goot voice has. But dat one song--it tell me noting. Can
she Haendel sing?"

"That I know not, but I'll warrant she'll not be a dunce with Purcell.
And you must admit, doctor, that your George Frederick Handel is much
beholden to our Henry Purcell."

"Vat?" cried Pepusch a little angrily. "Nein--nein. Haendel the greatest
composer of music in de vorld is."

"I grant you his genius but he comes after Purcell. Have you heard
Purcell's setting of 'Arise, ye subterranean winds?' If not, I'll get
Leveridge to sing it. Has not your Handel helped himself to that? Not
note for note, but in style, in dignity, in expression? Ah, I have you
ther