all you?"

"Mostly an idle slut, sir."

Her face remained unmoved save her eyes, which danced with sly
merriment.

The men at the window burst into a roar of laughter. He who had entered
last laughed the loudest and deepest, and loud and deep as was that
laugh it was full of music. At its sound Gay turned sharply.

"What? Dick Leveridge? You've come at the right moment. We need someone
who knows good music when he hears it. What of this pretty child's
voice. Is it good?"

"Is it good? I'll answer your question, Mr. Gay, by asking you another.
Are you good at verses?"

"'Tis said my 'Fables' will be pretty well. The young Prince William
will have the dedication of it and if his mother, the Princess of Wales
approves, methinks my fortune's made," cried Gay buoyantly.

"Glad to hear it," replied Leveridge, dryly. "If I know anything about
His Royal Highness you'll gain a fortune sooner by writing a ballad or
two for this pretty songster. Make her famous as you made me with 'All
in the Downs' and 'T'was when the seas were roaring.'"

Gay's face brightened.

"Faith, Dick, you've set my brain working. I'll think on't, but that
means I must keep my eye on the wench."

"Oh, I'll trust you for that," rejoined Leveridge, the ghost of a smile
flitting across his solemn visage.

Meanwhile the girl had retreated a yard or two from the window, her gaze
fixed wistfully on Gay and Leveridge. She knew from their looks that she
was the subject of their talk.

Gay turned from his friend Richard Leveridge, the great bass singer of
the day, and rested his hands on the window sill. Bolingbroke had sunk
into his chair, and buried in his thoughts, was slowly sipping his wine.
Lancelot Vane continued to breathe heavily.

"Come here, child," said Gay through the open window and sinking his
voice. The crowd had pressed round her and were clamourous for her to
sing again. Some had thrown her a few pence for which a couple of
urchins were groping on the ground.

The girl approached.

"Now Polly----"

"My name's Lavinia--Lavinia Fenton, sir," she interrupted.

"Too fine--too fine. I like Polly better. Never mind. If it's Lavinia,
Lavinia it must be. What's your mother? Where does she live?"

"At the coffee house in Bedfordbury."

"Does she keep it?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what do _you_ do?"

"Wait on the customers--sometimes."

"And sometimes you sing in the streets--round the taverns, eh?"

"Only when mother drives me