And now he was presuming to doubt Polly, too.

Like his imperence! What the dickens did HE know of Polly?
Keenly relishing the sense of his own intimate knowledge, Mahony touched the breast-pocket in which Polly's letters lay--he often carried them out with him to a little hill, on which a single old blue-gum had been left standing; its scraggy top-knot of leaves drooped and swayed in the wind, like the few long straggling hairs on an old man's head.
The letters formed a goodly bundle; for Polly and he wrote regularly to each other, she once a week, he twice.

His bore the Queen's head; hers, as befitted a needy little governess, were oftenest delivered by hand.
Mahony untied the packet, drew a chance letter from it and mused as he read.

Polly had still not ceded much of her early reserve--and it had taken him weeks to persuade her even to call him by his first name.

She was, he thanked goodness, not of the kind who throw maidenly modesty to the winds, directly the binding word is spoken.