"Why, I've been fond of you for no end of a time! Haven't I showed it in lots of ways? You must have known, and you did know."
"When you smashed my door in and fought me?" asked Polly with a shamefaced laugh.
"You don't think I'd have taken all that trouble if it hadn't been for the pleasure of carrying you downstairs?"
"Go along!"
"But there wasn't much love about you, Polly. You hit jolly hard, old girl, and you kicked and you scratched. Why, I've bruises yet!"
"Serve you right! Do let me put my 'air and my 'at straight."
"I say, Polly—" and he whispered something.
"I s'pose so—some day," was her answer, with head bent over the hat she was smoothing into shape.
"But won't you think yourself too good for me? Remember, you've got a lord for your uncle."
It returned upon both with the freshness of surprise; even Polly had quite lost sight of the startling fact during the last few minutes. They looked at the unaddressed letter; they gazed into each other's faces.