“I would not marry Mr. Symington for—for twenty thousand pounds.”
The man sprang to his feet, but she was gone, the door closed behind her.
“Almighty!” he gasped, sinking back into his chair.
“What’s wrong wi’ ye?” cried his sister. “I warned ye she would never consent.”
“She’ll consent yet!” he said, with a suppressed oath. “But—but what made her name twenty thousand pounds?”
* * * * *
It was nearly an hour later when Colin reached his father’s house. Hayward Senior was not precisely a heartless man, but he was totally without imagination.
Seated—one dares to say “posed”—at an extremely orderly writing-table in his fine old library—he received his youngest son with a stern look and motioned him to be seated. He was in evening dress, and you would never have taken him for anything but a gentleman—in the narrow sense of the word.
“You are late,” he said presently. “Where have you been?”
“Walking about. It’s a lovely night.”