"I don't take to him," said she. "Is he an Englishman?"
"No—he comes from Germany. Like King George and Queen Caroline."
Lavinia frowned.
"Some of the people in St. Giles I've heard call the Royal Family Hanoverian rats," she exclaimed indignantly, "and those German women who pocketted everything they could lay their hands upon—the 'Maypole' and the 'Elephant,' the one because she's so lean and the other because she's so fat—they're rats too. Fancy the King making them into an English duchess and countess. 'Tis monstrous. Why——"
"Hush—hush," interrupted Gay with mock solemnity and placing his finger on her lips. "You're talking treason within earshot of the 'Maypole,' otherwise her Grace the Duchess of Kendal. Don't you know that she is a neighbour of Mr. Pope? Kendal House on the road to Isleworth is but an easy walk from here."
"Then I'm sorry for Mr. Pope. I hate the Germans."
"Oh, then you're a Jacobite and a rebel. If you would retain your pretty head on your shoulders keep your treason to yourself," laughed Gay. "But I confess I like the Germans no more than you do. Yet there are exceptions. Pepusch has made his home here—his country turned him out—and there's clever Mr. Handel. The English know more about his music than do his countrymen. I would love to see you, Polly, applauded in the Duke's Theatre as heartily as was Mr. Handel's opera 'Rinaldo' at the King's."
Something significant in Gay's voice and face sent the blood rushing to Lavinia's cheeks.
"I applauded!—I at the Duke's! Oh, that will never be."
"May be not—may be not. But one never knows. A pretty face—a pretty voice—an air—faith, such gifts may work wonders. But let us keep Mr. Pope waiting no longer."