led pain and pleasure of
self-torture.

Gay neither gratified nor disappointed her. He simply remarked that it
was well she now had nothing to distract her mind and that she would be
able to devote herself entirely to her new life, and after counselling
her not to argue about terms with Huddy, he led her back to the manager,
and it was settled that she should join his travelling company.

Lavinia was overwrought, and that night slept but little. It was hard to
say whether the thoughts of her future on the stage, her dreams of
distinction with Gay's opera, or her wounded love and pride occupied the
foremost place in her mind. She resolved over and over again that she
would forget Lancelot Vane. She meant to steel herself against every
kind of tender recollection. She was certain she hated him and dropped
off to sleep thinking of the one kiss they had exchanged.

The next morning she was fairly tranquil. She had not, it is true,
dismissed Vane entirely from her thoughts, but she had arrived at the
conclusion that as it was all over between them it really was of no
consequence whether he had jilted her for Sally Salisbury. That he
should bestow even a look on so common a creature was a proof of his
vulgar tastes. Oh, he was quite welcome to Sally if his fancy roamed in
so low a direction. She felt she was able to regard the whole business
with perfect equanimity.

Her landlady that day bought a copy of the _Daily Post_ and she sent it
upstairs to Lavinia. Newspaper notices of theatrical performances were
rarities in those days. Lavinia did not expect to see any reference to
Mr. Huddy's benefit, and her expectations were realised. What she _did_
see sent the blood rushing to her face and her hands fumbled so that she
could hardly hold the paper. Then she went deadly pale, she tore the
paper in half and--a rare thing for Lavinia to do--she burst into tears.

CHAPTER XXI

"IF WE FIGHT.... WHAT SAY YOU TO LAVINIA FENTON?"

The big room of the "Angel and Sun" hard by Cripples Gate was the scene
of loud talk, louder laughter and the clank of pewter mugs on the solid
oaken table. The fat landlord, divested of his wig, which he only wore
on high days and holidays, was rubbing his shiny pate with satisfaction.
The Grub Street writers were his best customers, and when they had money
in their pockets they were uneasy until it was gone.

The room was low pitched; its big chimney beams projected so much that
it behoved