eyes on her wilful daughter. At the same time, Lavinia was not the same
girl who at Bedfordbury used to run wild, half clad and half starved,
and yet never looked like a beggar, so pretty and so attractive was she.
Six months had developed her into a woman and the training of Miss
Pinwell, the pink of gentility, had given her the modish airs of a lady
of quality. True, her appearance just now had little of this "quality,"
her walk being in fact somewhat limping and one-sided. But there was
good reason for this defect. She had lost one of her high-heeled shoes,
that with which she had battered the coach window.

In spite of her protest of not caring, Lavinia's heart went pit-a-pat
when she entered the hot, frowsy, greasy air of the coffee house.
Customers were clamouring to be served and there was no Hannah to wait
upon them. Mrs. Fenton, her eyes flashing fire, was bustling up and down
between the rows of boxes and denouncing the truant waitress in vigorous
Billingsgate.

Mrs. Fenton had her back turned to the door when Hannah entered with
Lavinia and the two were half way down the gangway before the lady
noticed them. At the sight of her daughter she dropped the dish of eggs
and bacon she was about to deposit in front of a customer and stared
aghast.

Every eye was turned upon Lavinia who, shaking herself free from
Hannah's friendly support, hastened towards her astonished mother,
anxious to avoid a scene under which in her shattered nerves she might
break down.

"Devil fetch me," Mrs. Fenton ejaculated before she had recovered from
the shock. "Why, you hussy----"