The quarrels of poets and publishers were to her a sealed book.

All that she knew was that she disliked the man at first sight, while his vile speech made her ears tingle with shame.

Despite the danger possibly awaiting her in the gloom of Paternoster Row she would have fled had not the sight of one of the group at the table rooted her to the spot.
This was Lancelot Vane whom her maiden fancy had elevated into a god endowed with all the virtues and laden with misfortunes which had so drawn him towards her.

Vane--alas that it should have to be written--had taken much wine--far too much! Lavinia knew the signs.

Often in the old days in St.Giles had she seen them--the eyes unnaturally bright, the face unnaturally flushed, the laugh unnaturally empty.