The judge smiled indulgently.  Of course he was glad and proud.  He always knew his Shirley was a clever girl.  But by what strange fatality, he thought to himself, had his daughter in this book of hers assailed the very man who had encompassed his own ruin?  It seemed like the retribution of heaven.  Neither his daughter nor the financier was conscious of the fact that each was indirectly connected with the impeachment proceedings.  Ryder could not dream that “Shirley Green”, the author of the book which flayed him so mercilessly, was the daughter of the man he was trying to crush.  Shirley, on the other hand, was still unaware of the fact that it was Ryder who had lured her father to his ruin.

Mrs. Rossmore now insisted on Shirley going to her room to rest.  She must be tired and dusty.  After changing her travelling dress she would feel refreshed and more comfortable.  When she was ready to come down again luncheon would be served.  So leaving the judge to his papers, mother and daughter went upstairs together, and with due maternal pride Mrs. Rossmore pointed out to Shirley all the little arrangements she had made for her comfort.  Then she left her daughter to herself while she hurried downstairs to look after Eudoxia and luncheon.

When, at last, she could lock herself in her room where no eye could see her, Shirley threw herself down on the bed and burst into a torrent of tears.  She had kept up appearances as long as it was possible, but now the reaction had set in.  She gave way freely to her pent up feelings, she felt that unless she could relieve herself in this way her heart would break.  She had been brave until now, she had been strong to hear everything and see everything, but she could not keep it up forever.  Stott’s words to her on the dock had in part prepared her for the worst, he had told her what to expect at home, but the realization was so much more vivid.  While hundreds of miles of ocean still lay between, it had all seemed less real, almost attractive as a romance in modern life, but now she was face to face with the grim reality—­this shabby cottage, cheap neighbourhood and commonplace surroundings, her mother’s air of resignation to the inevitable, her father’s pale, drawn face telling so eloquently of the keen mental anguish through which he had passed.  She compared this pitiful spectacle with what they had been when she left for Europe, the fine mansion on Madison Avenue with its rich furnishings and well-trained servants, and her father’s proud aristocratic face illumined with the consciousness of his high rank in the community, and the attention he attracted every time he appeared on the street or in public places as one of the most brilliant and most respected judges on the bench.  Then to have come to this all in the brief space of a few months!  It was incredible, terrible, heart rending!  And what of the future?  What was to be done to save her father from this impeachment which she knew well would hurry him to his grave?  He could not survive that humiliation, that degradation.  He must be saved in the Senate, but how—­how?