He smiled again at her, as if he had recovered his good humour after their sharp passage at arms.
“Oh, it's politics—that's what the papers said. And you believe him innocent. Well, you must have some grounds for your belief.”
“Not necessarily—”
“You said that even if you had the proofs, you could not produce them without sacrificing your friends, showing that your friends are interested in having this man put off the bench—” She stopped and burst into hysterical laughter. “Oh, I think you're having a joke at my expense,” she went on, “just to see how far you can lead me. I daresay Judge Rossmore deserves all he gets. Oh, yes—I'm sure he deserves it.” She rose and walked to the other side of the room to conceal her emotion.
Ryder watched her curiously.
“My dear young lady, how you take this matter to heart!”
“Please forgive me,” laughed Shirley, and averting her face to conceal the fact that her eyes were filled with tears. “It's my artistic temperament, I suppose. It's always getting me into trouble. It appealed so strongly to my sympathies—this story of hopeless love between two young people—with the father of the girl hounded by corrupt politicians and unscrupulous financiers. It was too much for me. Ah! ah! I forgot where I was!”
She leaned against a chair, sick and faint from nervousness, her whole body trembling. At that moment there was a knock at the library door and Jefferson Ryder appeared. Not seeing Shirley, whose back was towards him, he advanced to greet his father.
“You told me to come up in five minutes,” he said. “I just wanted to say—”
“Miss Green,” said Ryder, Sr., addressing Shirley and ignoring whatever it was that the young man wanted to say, “this is my son Jefferson. Jeff—this is Miss Green.”