"And it's me that found it out, Polly! What have you got to say for
it? Eh, old girl? What have you got to say?"
Polly uttered a scream of laughter and threw herself forward.
Gammon's arms were ready; they clasped her and hugged her, she not
dreaming of resistance--anything but that. Only when her face was
very red, and her hat all but off, and her hair beginning to come
loose, did she gently put him away.
"That'll do; that's enough."
"You mean it, don't you?" asked Gammon, tenderly enfolding her
waist.
"I s'pose so; it looks like it. That'll do; let me git my breath.
What a silly you are!"
"And were you fond of me all the time, Polly?" he whispered at her
ear as she sat down.
"I dessay; how do I know? It's quite certain you wasn't fond of me,
or you'd never 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.
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