fingers and pearly teeth she had the
string off and the parcel open in a trice. She held the manuscript under
Gay's nose. He could not help seeing the title, writ large as it was.

"Love's Blindness: A Tragedy in Five Acts. By Lancelot Vane," he read
with a rueful look. "Mercy on me, Polly, you never told me it was a
tragedy. Oh, this is very--very sad."

"But Mr. Gay, aren't all tragedies sad?"

"Oh, I confess some are comic enough in all conscience. But that was not
in my mind. It was that any sane man should waste time in writing a
tragedy. The worst thing about a tragedy is that the playwright's
friends are pestered to read it and audiences tired by sitting it out.
Aren't there tragedies enough in real life without men inventing 'em?"

"Indeed, I can't say, sir."

"I suppose not. You're not old enough. Tragedy doesn't come to the young
and when it does they don't understand and perhaps 'tis as well. But
I'll have to humour you or I shall never hear the last of it. Put the
parcel up again and I'll look at the contents at my leisure. Now to a
much more entertaining matter--yourself. Have you practised your
singing? Have you attended to the instructions of your music master? I
doubt it. I'll vow you've often driven the poor man half frantic with
your airs and graces and teasing and that he hasn't had the heart to
chide you."

"Oh, indeed he has," cried Lavinia, pouting, "though really I haven't
given him cause and yet he was tiresome enough."

"I dare say. But you must let me hear. I want to be sure the good
duchess hasn't thrown her money away. My friends, too, are curious to
have a taste of your quality. I've told them much about thee. You
mustn't put discredit upon me."

"No sir, I wouldn't be so ungrateful. What would you have me do?"

"I want to hear one of your old ballads such as showered pennies and
shillings in your pocket when I've heard you sing in Clare Market and
St. Giles High Street. But first let us go back to Mr. Pope and the
others."

Lavinia looked a little frightened at the idea of singing before musical
judges who doubtless were accustomed to listen to the great singers at
the King's Theatre--Signor Senesino, Signor Farinalli, Signora Cuzzoni,
Signora Faustina, and may be the accomplished English singer Anastasia
Robinson, albeit she rarely sang in the theatre but mainly in the houses
of her father's noble friends among whom was the Earl of Peterborough,
her future husband.

Perhaps