They approached the table beneath the cedar tree.
"Sir," said Gay with a bow to Pope, "I've prevailed upon my young madam here to give us a taste of her quality. I trust your twittering birds won't be provoked to rivalry. Happily their season of song is past."
"I warn you Mr. Gay, the age of miracles is not past. What if the work you're toiling at sends the present taste of the town into a summersault? Would not that be a miracle?"
"You think then that my 'Beggar's Opera' won't do," broke in Gay, his face losing a little of its colour.
"You know my views. It is something unlike anything ever written before—a leap in the dark. But for Miss's ditty. We're all attention."
"What shall I sing, sir?" Lavinia whispered to Gay.
"Anything you like, my child, so long as you acquit yourself to Dr. Pepusch's satisfaction."
"But I would love to have your choice too. What of 'My Lodging is on the Cold Ground?' My music master told me this was the song that made King Charles fall in love with Mistress Moll Davies. So I learned it."
"Odso. Of course you did. Then let old Pepusch look out. Nothing could be better. Aye, it is indeed a sweet tune."
Lavinia retired a few paces on to the lawn, dropped naturally into a simple pose and for a minute or two imagined herself back in the streets where she sang without effort and without any desire to create effect. She sang the pathetic old air—much better fitted to the words than the so-called Irish melody of a later date—with delightful artlessness.