"Why, my dear girl, I—-"
Shirley threw her arms round his neck.
"Ah, yes, now I know it's you," she cried.
"Of course it is, Shirley, my dear girl. Of course it is. Who else should it be?"
"Yes, but it isn't the same," insisted Shirley. "There is no ring to your voice. It sounds hollow and empty, like an echo. And this place," she added dolefully, "this awful place—"
She glanced around at the cracked ceilings, the cheaply papered walls, the shabby furniture, and her heart sank as she realized the extent of their misfortune. She had come back prepared for the worst, to help win the fight for her father's honour, but to have to struggle against sordid poverty as well, to endure that humiliation in addition to disgrace—ah, that was something she had not anticipated! She changed colour and her voice faltered. Her father had been closely watching for just such signs and he read her thoughts.
"It's the best we can afford, Shirley," he said quietly. "The blow has been complete. I will tell you everything. You shall judge for yourself. My enemies have done for me at last."
"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?"