Mr. Hayward smiled bitterly. “Were you alone?”
“Most of the time.” Colin looked at his father. “I met Miss Carstairs, and we talked for a little while.”
“Who on earth is Miss Carstairs?” Mr. Hayward did not wait for an answer to his ironic question. “You mean the young woman in the local post-office, I presume; the young woman, in fact, with whom your wretched philanderings—”
“That’s enough, father!” The young man rose quickly. “Let us leave Miss Carstairs out of—”
“Well, I trust you have informed her as to your income and prospects.”
“Why should I do that?”
“Usual thing in the circumstances—is it not?”
“I don’t understand you. What circumstances?”
“Tut!” exclaimed Mr. Hayward, “don’t you intend to marry the grocer’s daughter—beg her pardon—niece—”
Colin barely restrained the fury that paled his face. “You may take my word for it,” he said, “that Miss Carstair’s certainly does not intend to marry me.”