It was not tact but nervousness that prevented George at the end of this dreadful passage from suggesting that his father-in-law could do again what he had done before, that the strain was temporary, and that he for his part hoped for the best; but his wife, who was by this time fairly well accustomed to follow his thought, was careful to point out that whatever the future might do for them, the present was dirt black, and the present meant at least two years: “At least two years?” (to her father). To which her father very simply and plainly answered her: “Yep.” There was much of the splendid blood of Theocritus in Sudie; indeed it is often observed that the genius of the father will descend to the daughter--and _vice versa_. The very next sentence, therefore, with which Sudie prodded her disconsolate spouse, was a demand for a list of those who might be ready to take Demaine House, to take it at once, to take it furnished, to take it high, to take it by the year and not for the season, and, when they had taken it, to _pay_. Demaine immediately suggested the name of such of his acquaintance as might most desire to occupy such a position in London, and were also least able to do so, but he was careful to add after each name, some such remark as “But of course they won’t do,” or “but I don’t think he can afford it,”--until his father-in-law in a pardonable lassitude went out. “The best thing you can do,” said his wife with renewed decision when they were alone, “is to get up right here and go round to Mary’s.” For it was a notable circumstance in Sudie’s relations with Mrs. Smith that while that lady gave _her_ her full title, _she_ would invariably allude to Mrs. Smith by the more affectionate medium of the Christian name. Demaine assented. He found his father-in-law at the door; they went out together into the night, and when he had timidly admitted that he was going South towards St. James’s, the financier with rapid decision announced that he was going North towards Marylebone,--and they parted. Mary Smith was not in. It was only eleven and the theatre detained her. George waited. He took counsel from several valuable pictures, was careful to touch and handle nothing upon her tables (for he knew that she detested an accident and with almost-canine-sagacity could invariably detect his interference), and stood, not at ease. She came in at twelve; she brought a party with her, and she insisted upon supper. It was one before she could talk to him alone, and she talked to him until two. The first thing she did was to tell him that he could not let his house that season and that he must make up his mind to it. The second was to discover what balance there was at the bank--and to hear that it was pitifully small. The third was to offer him a short loan that would carry him over at least a few weeks of necessary expense, and the fourth to tell him that, not upon the morrow but upon the day after, she would have decided.