Mr. Adrian was too good a diplomatist, having once got his wife into a spirit antagonistic to the deposed favourite, to let the matter rest. He declared he could see no rudeness in it; that a gentleman in Egerton’s position couldn’t be expected to take them into his confidence, etc.; and so skilfully did he play his cards, that at last Mrs. Adrian declared, with genuine indignation, that she believed he would lay himself down and let people trample on him. ‘But I won’t, I can assure you,’ she exclaimed. ‘We’re as good as Mr. Gurth Egerton, every bit, and Ruth’s a wife any prince of the land might be proud of. And to think she should want to throw herself away on this Marston! There, I haven’t patience to talk about it!’ Gradually, however, Mrs. Adrian moderated the rancour of her tongue. Marston was not the man, when he had set his heart on anything, to fail for lack of courage or ability. He was determined to conquer Mrs. Adrian’s apathy, and he succeeded to a limited extent. He was so pleasant, so polite, he yielded so readily in argument, and was so unobtrusive in his visits and so considerate in his attentions to the old lady, that at last she was good enough to acknowledge that really he had changed for the better, and that after all Ruth might have chosen a less presentable and less agreeable sweetheart. But while Marston was winning his way into the good graces of Ruth’s mother, he was not neglecting the serious aspect of her father’s affairs. He went into the business with a thoroughness which quite astonished Mr. Adrian, and arrived at the result in a very short space of time. It was not an agreeable result. No amount of skill and no amount of juggling could solve the arithmetical problem in any way but one. Taking the estimated amount of the call to be made on each shareholder in the unfortunate Blankshire Bank as correct, nearly the whole of the capital on the interest of which the Adrians lived would be swept away. It was not a large fortune that Mr. Adrian had retired on, but it was one which he had always considered would be ample for himself and his wife with their inexpensive tastes, and for his daughter when they were gone. Marston did not attempt to hide the result for a moment. He put it plainly before his future father-in-law. Mr. Adrian must make up his mind to live for the remainder of his days upon the wreck of his little fortune, and that, calculated generously, would yield him about £150 to £200 a year. ‘We must give up this house at once,’ said Mr. Adrian, with a sigh. ‘I feel as if every penny I spend now I am defrauding the creditors of.’