"Too fine--too fine. I like Polly better. Never mind. If it's Lavinia,
Lavinia it must be. What's your mother? Where does she live?"

"At the coffee house in Bedfordbury."

"Does she keep it?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what do _you_ do?"

"Wait on the customers--sometimes."

"And sometimes you sing in the streets--round the taverns, eh?"

"Only when mother drives me out."

"Oh. She ill treats you, does she? That bruise on your shoulder--was it
her work?"

The girl nodded.

"You wouldn't mind if you left your mother and did nothing but sing?"

"Oh, that would be joy," cried the girl squeezing her hands tightly
together to stifle her emotions. "But how can I?"

"It may be managed, perhaps. I must see your mother----"