"Thank you," I answered, wondering which of my sins he had discovered. "Nothing wrong, I hope?"

"It depends," was his answer. "Have you got any means of your own—except what you earn, I mean?—because, if not, I don't think you have treated either me or my daughter fairly. You can't marry on eighty pounds a year." A grim smile played about his haggard features as he spoke, but he did not appear to be angry.

I confess I was staggered for the moment; he had found out, then, in spite of all our care.

"I—I—what do you mean, sir?" I faltered.

"Oh, I know all about it, my dear sir," he said. "I've not lived all these years and not learnt to keep my eyes open. But to return: Are you now, or likely to be, in a position to marry?"

"I'm afraid not at present," I replied, "but I hope as time goes on to find an opening, and I meant then to speak to you about a formal engagement between Gwen and myself. We are both quite prepared to wait."

"Bah!" sneered the old man. "Find an opening—what kind of an opening, eh? Don't talk nonsense, man."