"A pretty how de do, my young madam, upon my word. Miss Pinwell'll
never take you back. Goodness knows what may happen. What'll Mr. Gay,
who's been so good to you, think of your base ingratitude?"

Lavinia's eyes filled with tears. She broke down when she thought of the
gentle, good-natured poet. She could only weep silently.

Mrs. Fenton saw the sign of penitence with much satisfaction and while
twirling her wedding ring to assist her thoughts, suddenly said:--

"You haven't told me a word about this spark of yours. Who is he? What
is he? Some draper's 'prentice, I suppose, or footman, may be out of a
place for robbing his master and thinking of turning highwayman."

"Nothing of the kind," cried Lavinia, furious that her mother should
think she would so bemean herself. "I hate him for his falseness, but
he's a born gentleman all the same."

"Oh, is he? Let's hear all about him. There's no address on his letter.
Where does he live?"

"I shan't tell you."

"Because you're ashamed. I shouldn't wonder if he wasn't a trull's bully
from Lewknor's Lane or Whetstone Park. The rascals pass themselves off
as sparks of fashion at ridottos, masquerades and what not and live by
robbery and blood money. I warrant I'll soon run your fine gentleman to
earth. He talks about telling his father. Pooh! That was but to bait the
trap and you walked into it nicely."