"Are they?" a deep and quiet voice asked, close to her side, and Polly started strangely. For a moment her tiny shell-pink ears became crimson, and then she looked up, smiling. "How do you do, Captain Ivor?" Denham Ivor in his uniform--large-skirted military coat, black gaiters, white breeches, pig-tail, and gold-laced cocked hat in hand--looked even taller than out of it, and at all times he was wont to overtop the average man. He had a fine face, well browned, with regular features and dark eyes, ordinarily calm, and he bore his head in a stately fashion, while his manners were marked by a grave courtesy, which might seem strange beside modern freedom. As he looked down upon Polly, a subdued glow awoke in those earnest eyes. Polly had not sprung up. She was still kneeling on the floor beside Molly, and her slim figure in its white frock looked very child-like. The flush had died as fast as it had arisen. Molly was clinging to her, with hidden face, and for an instant the fresh voice failed to reach the younger girl's understanding. Then Molly became aware of another spectator, and quitting her hold, she fled from the room. Polly rose gracefully. "We will now go to the drawing-room," she suggested. "Nay, wait a moment, I entreat. One instant"--and the bronzed face had grown positively pale. "I beseech of you to listen to me. For indeed, I have somewhat to say which I can no longer resolve to keep to myself. No, not even for one more day. Somewhat that you alone can answer, thereby making me the most happy or the most miserable of men." A tiny gleam came to Polly's downcast eyes. "If you have aught that is weighty to say, it may be that I could but refer you to my grandmother," she suggested demurely. "But perhaps you can divine what that weighty thing is. And what if already I have written to your grandmother; and if she has consented to my suit?" Young ladies did not give themselves away too cheaply in those days. Polly was barely eighteen; but, for all that, she had a very dainty air of dignity. And if, during past weeks, she had gone through some troublous hours, recognising how much she cared for Captain Ivor, and wondering, despite his marked attentions, whether he seriously cared for her, she was not going to admit as much in any haste to the individual in question. So she dropped an elegant little curtsey, and asked, with the most innocent air imaginable-- "Then, pray, sir, what may be your will?" "Sweet Polly, may I speak?" A solid square stool--well adapted for present purposes--was close at hand, and promptly down upon this with both knees went the tall grenadier, in the most approved fashion of his day. Sweet Polly could not long stand out against his earnest pleading. So, with a show of coy reserve, she gradually yielded, intimating that she did like him just a little; that some day or other she thought she could be his wife; that meantime she would somehow manage to keep him in her memory.