"Well I—I opened the other end of the purse and read what was on the papers inside. It was very wrong. You'll forgive me, won't you?"
"I'd forgive you anything. You descended upon me like an angel. Not many young ladies of your station would have had the courage to set foot in Grub Street."
A smile trembled on Lavinia's tempting lips.
"My station? What then do you think is my station?"
"How can I tell? I take you to be a lady, madam. I don't want to know any more."
At this Lavinia laughed outright. Her clothes were of good quality and of fashionable cut—the Duchess of Queensberry's maid had seen to that—her manner and air were those of a lady of quality—thanks to Miss Pinwell—but apart from these externals what was she? A coffee shop waitress—a strolling singer—a waif and stray whose mother would not break her heart if she got her living on the streets!
When she thought of the bitter truth the laughing face was clouded.
"I wish I were a lady—a rich one, I mean—for your sake," said she softly. "You look so ill. You ought to have a doctor."
"I ought to have a good many things, I daresay, that I haven't got. I have to do without."
Her eyes drooped. They remained fixed on a little gold brooch fastening her cloak. The brooch was the gift of Dorrimore. The wonder was her mother had not discovered it.