Lavinia shook her head and cast down her eyes.
"Left school," repeated Gay lifting his wig slightly and rubbing his temple. "Surely—surely you haven't misbehaved and have been expelled. Miss Pinwell I know is the perfection of prim propriety, but——"
"Quite true, sir, so she is," burst out Lavinia impetuously, "and I've done nothing wicked—not really wicked—only silly, but I'm sure Miss Pinwell wouldn't take me back. You see, sir, I—oh well, I suppose I must confess I ran away—I meant to return and nobody would have been the wiser—but things happened that I didn't expect and—and oh, I do hope you'll forgive me."
Lavinia's pleading voice quivered. Her eyes were fixed imploringly on Gay. Tears were glistening in them, the pose of her figure suggested a delightful penitence. The susceptible poet felt his emotions stirred.
"Forgive you? But you haven't told me what I am to forgive. You ran away from school you say. What made you? Had you quarrelled with anyone?"
"Oh no—not then—the quarrel was after I left the school."
"After—hang me if I understand. Whom did you quarrel with?"
"The—the person I—I ran away with."
Lavinia's confession was uttered in the softest of whispers. It was inaudible to anyone save Gay. Her face had suddenly become scarlet.
"The per—oh, there's a mystery here. Mr. Pope—gentlemen," Gay went on turning to the others, "will you excuse me if I draw apart with our young madam. She has propounded to me an enigma which must be solved."