Lavinia clasped her hands. A shadow passed over her bright face leaving
it sad and pensive. The red mobile lips were tremulous and the eyes
moist and shining. She now knew why Lancelot Vane's features had seemed
so familiar to her. But not for worlds would she let him know she had
seen him in his degradation.

Besides she too had memories of that day she would like to forget--save
the remembrance of her meeting with Gay and his kindness to her, a
kindness which she felt she had repaid with folly and ingratitude.

"Then you know Mr. Gay?" said she presently.

"I was introduced to him by Spiller the actor one night at the Lamb and
Flag, Clare Market--I'll warrant you don't know Clare Market; 'tis a
dirty greasy ill-smelling place where everyone seems to be a
butcher----"

Lavinia said nothing. She knew Clare Market perfectly well.

"Mr. Gay was good enough to look at some poems I had with me. He praised
them and I told him I'd written a play and he said he would like to see
it. And then--but you know what happened. I feel I daren't face him
again after disgracing myself so. What must he think of me?"

"He'll forgive you," cried Lavinia enthusiastically. "He's the dearest,
the kindest, the most generous hearted man in the world. He is my best
friend and----"

She stopped. She was on the point of plunging into her history and there
was no necessity for doing this. She had not said a word to Lancelot