"The--the person I--I ran away with."

Lavinia's confession was uttered in the softest of whispers. It was
inaudible to anyone save Gay. Her face had suddenly become scarlet.

"The per--oh, there's a mystery here. Mr. Pope--gentlemen," Gay went on
turning to the others, "will you excuse me if I draw apart with our
young madam. She has propounded to me an enigma which must be solved."

"And if you fail--as you will if the enigma is a woman's--call us to
thine aid," said Arbuthnot laughingly.

Gay shook his head and he and Lavinia paced the lawn.

"It's no use asking you to tell me everything, Polly, because you can't
do it. Your sex never do. You're like spendthrifts who are asked to
disclose all their debts. They always keep the heaviest one back. Tell
me as much or as little as you please or nothing at all, if it likes you
better."

Lavinia hesitated, and at first her tale was a halting one enough, but
seeing no sign of anger in Gay's amiable countenance, she became more
courageous, and substantially she said all that was necessary to make
her companion acquainted with her list of peccadilloes.

"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 yo