most likely the end of her ambition to be a great actress. Her mind had
long been torn, and at the eleventh hour when she was on her way to meet
her fate in Dorrimore she still hesitated. If she really loved Dorrimore
there would have been no hesitation. But she had never met any man who
did more than flatter her and gratify the pleasure she felt at being
admired.

Her decision was in the balance. The weight of a feather would turn the
scale one way or another. The feather came in the shape of Dorrimore
himself. There he was in three cornered hat and cloak, his powdered wig
white in the moonlight, pacing up and down, his hand resting on his
sword hilt. He caught sight of the shrinking figure in the shadow and
the hat was doffed in a profound bow. Undoubtedly a good looking young
man, but as undoubtedly a fop of the first water with his ruffles and
bosom of Mechlin lace, red heels to his shoes, gold clocks on his silk
stockings and the whiff of scent which heralded his coming.

When near enough his arm went round her and he drew back her hood. He
kissed her closely, so closely indeed that his ardour almost frightened
her, though she knew not why. He withdrew his lips and gazed into her
face, his own paling under the violence of his passion.

"Dearest Lavinia," he murmured. "You are the loveliest creature in the
world and I protest I am the luckiest of men. Have you no words of love
for me? Why so silent?"

She had not uttered a word. The rise and fall of her bosom showed her
agitation.

"I'm here. I'm here. Isn't that enough?" she faltered.