"All of them," she replied with a beaming smile; after that the boy was not long in bringing them.
In Arizona Shirley had been reading news which was, generally, three, four days—frequently a week old. Out there her home papers had straggled in, stale and unprofitable. But these—of even date; why, they were damp from the press. Indeed, it was good to have them!
"Home, home," she whispered to herself as she sank into a chair. She decided that she would not dine until much later, for she wanted to think, wanted to classify the emotions which had rushed in upon her so suddenly. The easy chair responded to her mood; and with a sigh, and placing her hands behind her head, she leaned back contentedly, little knowing that she looked wonderfully pretty in that old room—a goddess in a travelling gown. All the care and sorrow that she had passed through in these last months had made a woman of the girl, had deepened her beauty. Time had rounded her gently. Travel-stained and feverish with the glow of a new experience upon her, she was more inviting, more human, more beautiful than she could possibly be in the latest Paris creation. And yet one of the fittest mates in a great metropolis was alone. East and west, everywhere she had wandered, men, great men, wonderful men had held out their hands to her beseechingly—drawn by a certain undefinable magnetism and attractiveness which she possessed—a charm of manner which few could resist. And Shirley had passed on, and had given no sign.
But now in the silence of her room, her loneliness appalled her. The insistent memories closed in around her. And suddenly she knew that she wanted to live as other women lived—with a man of her own choosing. But where could she find the man in whom she could put her faith?
After a while, Shirley picked up one of the papers lying on the table. At the first glance she started and laughed guiltily. There at the head of the third column, a word, a name had caught her eye: Murgatroyd! Paper after paper she now scanned, and all mentioned his name: some on the first page, others on the second; and with it invariably was coupled another name: Thorne! Finally, she rejected all but one, the Pillar,—the most conservative evening paper in the city,—and concentrated her attention upon it. At a glance, Shirley could see that with all its conservatism, the Pillar was holding up its hands in reverential hero-worship. In a two-column article it reviewed Murgatroyd's record from its invariably impartial viewpoint. "Murgatroyd had been clean," it said, "his reputation was unsullied." It even referred to the Challoner incident as a pitiful piece of falsehood which had strengthened Murgatroyd in his position. Shirley laid down the paper with a cry:—
"Oh, what a hypocrite he is!"
So Murgatroyd was still playing a game! The root of his record was dishonesty! Shirley was thoroughly sincere in her indignation. And yet after a little while she began to wonder whether his conscience troubled him—whether it had cost him anything? Oh, if only she could be sure of that! For she well knew, and a little sigh of shame escaped her, that if only he had abandoned all pose, shown himself in true colours, even become a machine politician, she could have forgiven him everything. Not a little distressed, therefore, she read on and on, marvelling at the Pillar's devotion, but soon it became apparent to her that its editor was picturing Murgatroyd more in the light of a losing martyr than as a successful saint. For the article pointed out the strength of the railroads, of Wall Street, of the brewers, of the machine, and predicted mournfully that Murgatroyd was bound to fall before all his powerful enemies, concluding with: "More the pity, more the pity."
Presently she read the other papers; all contained more or less adverse criticism of him. One thing, however, stood out: fanatic though some of them called him, they were unanimous as to his honesty of purpose—a man who could not be bought, who could not be swerved from the straight and narrow path. Moreover, in none of them was there any reference to the existence of Challoner. The Challoners had been forgotten—had dropped completely out of sight.
It was after eight o'clock when Shirley was reminded of a sudden that she was desperately hungry. Once in the dining-room, she directed her steps to the small alcove—the corner which Miriam and she had always occupied, after the first of those memorable occasions when she had lunched there with Murgatroyd. Taking her place at the table with a sigh of satisfaction, Shirley threw a glance around the room. Palms screened her table, making it impossible for her to be seen, although it was perfectly easy for her to see every one in the room. There were few dining at that hour, and so after ordering her meal, she was thrown back once more on her reflections—reflections of Murgatroyd; and she fell to wondering in what way had the possession of almost a million dollars changed him. Had he grown stout? Was he full-faced, or possibly a bit insolent, overbearing and aggressively genial with a wide laugh? In any event, she was quite positive that he was prosperous-looking—too prosperous-looking; and, all in all, it was anything but a pleasant picture which she mentally drew of him.
The waiter brought the chosen viands and withdrew. Shirley ate eagerly. The air of the city was full of life and body; it gave her an appetite. Being quite a material personage, she enjoyed her dinner thoroughly. Things tasted deliciously to her, and yet her thoughts wandered.