still shone brightly. The long grass invited repose and Lavinia sat down
on a gentle hillock to think what her next step must be.

She was greatly disappointed at not finding Mr. Gay. She was sure he
would have forgiven her escapade; he would have helped her over the two
difficulties facing her--very little money and no shelter for the night.
Of the two the latter was most to be dreaded.

"A year ago," she thought, "it wouldn't have mattered very much. The
Covent Garden women and men from the country are kind-hearted. I'd have
had a corner in a waggon and some hay to lie upon without any bother,
and breakfast the next morning into the bargain. But now--in these
clothes--what would they take me for?"

These reflections, all the same, wouldn't solve the problem which was
troubling her and it _had_ to be solved. She must either walk about the
streets or brave the tempest of her mother's wrath. This wrath, however,
didn't frighten her so much as the prospect of being again made a
prisoner. Her mother, she felt sure, had some deep design concerning
her, though what it was she could not conceive.

Tired of pondering over herself and her embarrassing situation Lavinia
turned her mind to something far more agreeable--her promise to Lancelot
Vane which of course meant thinking about Vane himself.

She couldn't help contrasting Vane with Dorrimore. She hated to remember
having listened seriously to the latter's flatteries. By the light of
what had happened it seemed now to her perfectly monstrous that she
could ever have consented to marry him. It angered her when she thought
of it--but her anger was directed more against herself than against