he with a roguish gleam in his eye.

"No, they must be separate."

But he had his way.

Soon the banquet was ready and it delighted Lavinia to see how
ravenously the young man ate. At the same time it pained her for it told
of days of privation. Before long they were perfectly at ease and
merrily chatting about nothing in particular, under some circumstances
the best kind of talk. Suddenly he said:

"I'm wondering where my next meal is to come from. I can't expect an
angel to visit me every day."

"Perhaps it will be a raven. Didn't ravens feed Elijah?" said Lavinia
mockingly.

"I believe so, but I'm not Elijah. I'm not even a prophet. I'm only a
poor scribbler."

"You write plays, don't you?"

"I've written one but I'm afraid it's poor stuff. I meant to show it to
Mr. Gay the great poet. I was told he was often to be found at the
Maiden Head in St. Giles, but unluckily I was persuaded by some friends
to see Jack Sheppard's last exploit at Tyburn. I drank too much--I own
it to my shame--and when I reached the inn where I hoped to see Mr. Gay
I fell dead asleep and never saw him. He had gone when I awoke."