On one point only did he press her for a reply.

Was she fond of books?
If so, what evenings they would spend together, he reading aloud from some entertaining volume, she at her fancy work.

And poetry?
For himself he could truly say he did not care for poetry ...

except on a Saturday night or a quiet Sunday morning; and that was, because he liked it too well to approach it with any but a tranquil mind.
I THINK IF I KNOW YOU ARIGHT, AS I BELIEVE I DO, MY POLLY, YOU TOO HAVE POETRY IN YOUR SOUL.
He smiled at her reply; then kissed it.
I CANNOT WRITE POETRY MYSELF, said Polly, BUT I AM VERY FOND OF IT AND SHALL INDEED LIKE VERY MUCH DEAR RICHARD TO LISTEN WHEN YOU READ.
But the winter ran away, one cold, wet week succeeding another, and still they were apart.

Mahony urged and pleaded, but could not get Polly to name the wedding-day.