"Oh," interrupted Lavinia hastily, "I don't believe it. I'm not going to bother about love any more."
"Every woman has uttered those words, and has had to eat them. How many times have you eaten yours, my pretty Polly, since last you resolved to forswear love?"
"Not once. I've learned my lesson. I know it now by heart."
"So it doesn't interest you now to know anything about poor Lance Vane?"
It was not the pale moonlight that made Lavinia's cheeks at that moment look so white. Gay, who was gazing fixedly at her, saw her lips quiver.
"Poor Lance Vane? Why do you speak of him like that? Has he had his play accepted and has it made his fortune?" she exclaimed ironically.
"Neither the one nor the other. Ill luck's dogged him. I fear he wasn't born under a prosperous star."
"I'm sorry if he's been unfortunate. Perhaps though it was his own fault."
A note of sadness had crept into her voice as Gay did not fail to note.
"Well, it's hard to say. To be sure, his tragedy would not have taken the town—neither Rich nor Cibber would have aught to do with it, but he had worse misfortunes than that. He was denounced as a traitorous Jacobite and thrown into Newgate."