have gone off like you did that Sunday."

"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.

"You haven't gone and made a mistake?" asked Polly in an awed undertone.

"There now! You didn't think; you're beginning to be sorry."

"No, I'm not."

"You are; I can see it."

"Oh, all right; have it your own way! I thought you wouldn't be so
sweet-tempered very long. You're all alike, you men."

"Why, it's you that can't keep your temper!" shouted Gammon. "I only
wanted to hear you say it wouldn't make any difference, happen what
might."

"And didn't I say it wouldn't?" shrilled Polly. "What more can I say?"

Strangely enough a real tear had started in her eye. Gammon saw it and
was at once remorseful. He humbled himself before her; he declared
himself a beast and a brute. Polly was a darling: far too good for him,
too sweet and gentle and lovely. He ought to think himself the happiest
man living, by jorrocks if he oughtn't! Just one more! Why, he liked a
girl to have spirit! He wouldn't give tuppence farthing for fifty girls
that couldn't speak up for themselves. And if she was the niece of a
lord, why, she deserved it and a good deal more. She ought to be Lady
Polly straight away; and hanged if he wouldn't call her so.

"Hadn't we better get this letter addressed?" Polly asked, very amiable
again.

"Yes; it's getting late, I'm afraid."

Polly drew up to the table, but her hand was so unsteady that it cost
her much trouble to manage the pen.

"I've wrote it awful bad. Does it