Ruth blushed a vivid scarlet when she saw what she had done. There, on the blotting-paper in bold relief she had written, in place of her usual signature:
‘Ruth Marston.’
CHAPTER XLI.
AN AFTERNOON CALL.
Gurth Egerton was delighted at the cordial reception he had received at the hands of Mr. Adrian. He had, at any rate, in that interview ascertained that, so far as Ruth’s parents were concerned, nothing was known of Marston’s pretensions.
He was more than ever convinced that it was only braggadocio on that gentleman’s part, and that he had nothing to fear from his old companion. The more he thought of it, the more absurd it seemed to him that he should ever have attached any importance to Marston’s assertion. Ruth certainly was polite to him, and when he had seen them meet they met as old friends. He quite understood that. Years ago, before Marston went wrong, he had been acquainted with the family, and Ruth and he had been sweethearts as boy and girl. But things were very different now. Marston, in spite of his assumption of independence, was only an adventurer. He felt convinced that his respectability was a whited sepulchre, and that there was something very rotten underneath it.
But the undoubted fact remained that Marston was now on visiting terms with the Adrians, and that Ruth was not particularly cold to him.
It would be safer, at any rate, to clinch the matter at once, and bowl Mr. Edward Marston out before he had a chance of scoring.
Gurth followed up his declaration to Mr. Adrian at once. He managed to find himself pretty constantly in Ruth’s society, and he flattered himself that he was on the straight road to conquest.
But he was determined not to be too precipitate, and by overhaste court an answer which might render his position a difficult one.
One day when he called he was annoyed to find Marston at the house, but he shook hands with him cordially, and barely allowed his annoyance to be perceptible.