It was some time after the performance that Lavinia—whom everyone now called Polly—left the theatre. The noblemen who had seats on the stage crowded round her overwhelming her with compliments and looks of admiration. One of their number, a man of portly presence at least twice her age, whose face suggested good nature but little else, was assiduous in his attentions. Lavinia accepted his flattery as a matter of course, and thought nothing more about him. She was told he was the Duke of Bolton, but duke or earl made no difference to her. Some of her titled admirers offered to escort her home but she shook her head laughingly and refused everyone. She knew very well that Lancelot Vane would be waiting for her as usual at the stage door, and she did not intend either to disappoint him or make him jealous.
She joined him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining with excitement. Vane looked eagerly and anxiously into her face and gave a little sigh.
"Well," said she, "are you disappointed with me?"
"Disappointed! Good heavens, no. Why Lavinia—"
"Lavinia," she cried tossing her head coquettishly. "Polly if you please. Polly is to be my name for ever after. Everybody knows me now as Polly, though dear Mr. Gay called me so long and long ago. Isn't it wonderful how his words have come true?"
"Mr. Gay is a clever man—a great man. I wish—"
"Yes, and what do you wish? Something nice I hope."
"I don't know about that. My wish was that I had been born a real poet and dramatist and had written 'The Beggar's Opera' for you. But my wits are dull—like myself."
"Please don't be foolish. I want you to tell me how I sang—how I acted. You didn't mind Tom Walker making love to me?"
"No, I wished my arm had been round you instead of his, that was all."