It was nearly seven o'clock when Shirley got back to Seventy-fourth Street.

No one saw her come in, and she went direct to her room, and after a hasty dinner, worked until late into the night on her book to make up for lost time.

The events of the afternoon caused her considerable uneasiness.

She reproached herself for her weakness and for having yielded so readily to the impulse of the moment.

She had said only what was the truth when she admitted she loved Jefferson, but what right had she to dispose of her future while her father's fate was still uncertain?
Her conscience troubled her, and when she came to reason it out calmly, the more impossible seemed their union from every point of view.