“Your enemies?” cried Shirley eagerly. “Tell me who they are so I may go to them.”
“Yes, dear, you shall know everything. But not now. You are tired after your journey. To-morrow sometime Stott and I will explain everything.”
“Very well, father, as you wish,” said Shirley gently. “After all,” she added in an effort to appear cheerful, “what matter where we live so long as we have each other?”
She drew away to hide her tears and left the room on pretence of inspecting the house. She looked into the dining-room and kitchen and opened the cupboards, and when she returned there were no visible signs of trouble in her face.
“It's a cute little house, isn't it?” she said. “I've always wanted a little place like this—all to ourselves. Oh, if you only knew how tired I am of New York and its great ugly houses, its retinue of servants and its domestic and social responsibilities! We shall be able to live for ourselves now, eh, father?”
She spoke with a forced gaiety that might have deceived anyone but the judge. He understood the motive of her sudden change in manner and silently he blessed her for making his burden lighter.
“Yes, dear, it's not bad,” he said. “There's not much room, though.”
“There's quite enough,” she insisted. “Let me see.” She began to count on her fingers. “Upstairs—three rooms, eh? and above that three more—”
“No,” smiled the judge, “then comes the roof?”