"I believe so, but I'm not Elijah. I'm not even a prophet. I'm only a poor scribbler."
"You write plays, don't you?"
"I've written one but I'm afraid it's poor stuff. I meant to show it to Mr. Gay the great poet. I was told he was often to be found at the Maiden Head in St. Giles, but unluckily I was persuaded by some friends to see Jack Sheppard's last exploit at Tyburn. I drank too much—I own it to my shame—and when I reached the inn where I hoped to see Mr. Gay I fell dead asleep and never saw him. He had gone when I awoke."
Lavinia clasped her hands. A shadow passed over her bright face leaving it sad and pensive. The red mobile lips were tremulous and the eyes moist and shining. She now knew why Lancelot Vane's features had seemed so familiar to her. But not for worlds would she let him know she had seen him in his degradation.
Besides she too had memories of that day she would like to forget—save the remembrance of her meeting with Gay and his kindness to her, a kindness which she felt she had repaid with folly and ingratitude.
"Then you know Mr. Gay?" said she presently.
"I was introduced to him by Spiller the actor one night at the Lamb and Flag, Clare Market—I'll warrant you don't know Clare Market; 'tis a dirty greasy ill-smelling place where everyone seems to be a butcher——"
Lavinia said nothing. She knew Clare Market perfectly well.
"Mr. Gay was good enough to look at some poems I had with me. He praised them and I told him I'd written a play and he said he would like to see it. And then—but you know what happened. I feel I daren't face him again after disgracing myself so. What must he think of me?"
"He'll forgive you," cried Lavinia enthusiastically. "He's the dearest, the kindest, the most generous hearted man in the world. He is my best friend and——"