“Don’t ask me to betray my trust, Jeff,” she faltered.  “You know I am not indifferent to you—­far from it.  But I—­”

He came closer until his face nearly touched hers.

“I love you—­I want you,” he murmured feverishly.  “Give me the right to claim you before all the world as my future wife!”

Every note of his rich, manly voice, vibrating with impetuous passion, sounded in Shirley’s ear like a soft caress.  She closed her eyes.  A strange feeling of languor was stealing over her, a mysterious thrill passed through her whole body.  The eternal, inevitable sex instinct was disturbing, for the first time, a woman whose life had been singularly free from such influences, putting to flight all the calculations and resolves her cooler judgment had made.  The sensuous charm of the place—­the distant splash of the water, the singing of the birds, the fragrance of the trees and grass—­all these symbols of the joy of life conspired to arouse the love-hunger of the woman.  Why, after all, should she not know happiness like other women?  She had a sacred duty to perform, it was true; but would it be less well done because she declined to stifle the natural leanings of her womanhood?  Both her soul and her body called out:  “Let this man love you, give yourself to him, he is worthy of your love.”

Half unconsciously, she listened to his ardent wooing, her eyes shut, as he spoke quickly, passionately, his breath warm upon her cheek: 

“Shirley, I offer you all the devotion a man can give a woman.  Say the one word that will make me the happiest or the most wretched of men.  Yes or no!  Only think well before you wreck my life.  I love you—­I love you!  I will wait for you if need be until the crack of doom.  Say—­say you will be my wife!”

She opened her eyes.  His face was bent close over hers.  Their lips almost touched.

“Yes, Jefferson,” she murmured, “I do love you!” His lips met hers in a long, passionate kiss.  Her eyes closed and an ecstatic thrill seemed to convulse her entire being.  The birds in the trees overhead sang in more joyful chorus in celebration of the betrothal.

CHAPTER XIV

It was nearly seven o’clock when Shirley got back to Seventy-fourth Street.  No one saw her come in, and she went direct to her room, and after a hasty dinner, worked until late into the night on her book to make up for lost time.  The events of the afternoon caused her considerable uneasiness.  She reproached herself for her weakness and for having yielded so readily to the impulse of the moment.  She had said only what was the truth when she admitted she loved Jefferson, but what right had she to dispose of her future while her father’s fate was still uncertain?  Her conscience troubled her, and when she came to reason it out calmly, the more impossible seemed their union from every point of view.  How could she become the daughter-in-law of the man who