somehow suggested comicality. He stopped and stared;
apparently trying to recall some remembrance of her. She recognised him
at once. He was Jemmy Spiller the most popular comedian of the day.
Everybody who had any acquaintance with Clare Market knew Jem Spiller.
So much so that a tavern there was called after him.

"Faith, young madam, I've seen you before," said he. "Where, pray, was
it?"

"I've sung inside the 'Spiller's Head' more than once a year and more
ago," returned Lavinia with the demure look which was so characteristic
and at the same time so engaging.

"What, are you that saucy little baggage? By the Lord, let me look at
you again."

Spiller's laughing eyes roamed over her from head to foot and his shrewd
face wrinkled into the quizzical expression which had often times sent
his audience into a roar. Lavinia laughed too.

"Aye, you haven't lost the trick of sending a look that goes straight as
an arrow to a man's heart. Tell me, was it not you that Mr. Gay took
under his wing? At the 'Maiden Head,' wasn't it?"

"Yes. I've much to thank Mr. Gay for and you as well, Mr. Spiller. You
and your friends from the market saved me from a clawed face."

"Why to be sure. That fury Sal Salisbury had her spurs on. She'd have
half killed you but for us coming to the spot at the right time. But,
child, what have you been doing? Hang me if you haven't sprung into a
woman in a few months."

It was true. When Spiller last saw her she was hardly better than a waif
and stray. She was thin and bony, her growth impeded by insufficient
food, irregular hours and not a little ill usage. At Miss Pinwell's she
had lived well, she was happy, she had had love illusions and Nature had
asserted its sway.

Lavinia coloured with pleasure. To be complimented by Spiller, the idol
of the public--an actor--and she adored actors--was like the
condescension of a god. She dropped him a low curtsey.

"Oh, and you're in the fashion too. How long have you been a fine lady?"

Spiller's voice and manner had become slightly serious. Lavinia was too
familiar with London life not to understand the inference.

"I owe it all to Mr. Gay," she answered quickly. "He is the kindest
hearted man in the world. You see he spoke to her Grace the Duchess of
Queensberry about me and she sent me to school in Queen Square."

"What, you've rubbed shoulders with the quality, have you? How comes it
then that you talk to me--a rogue and a vagabond?"

"You