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“You are nervous tonight,” said Sir Roland.

She shrank under his look.

“You see, I did not expect you,” she murmured.

“Evidently not.” Sir Roland stood gravely considering her. “I came back,” he said, after a moment, “because it occurred to me that you might be lonely after all, in spite of your assurance to the contrary. I did not ask you to accompany me, Naomi. I did not think you would care to do so. But I regretted it later, and I have come back to remedy the omission. Will you come with me to Scotland?”

His tone was quiet and somewhat formal, but there was in it a kindliness that sent the blood pulsing through her veins in a wave of relief even greater than her astonishment at his words. He did not know, then. That was her one all-possessing thought. He could not know, or he had not spoken to her thus.

She sat slowly forward, drawing her hair about her shoulders like a cloak. She felt for the moment an overpowering weakness, and she could not look up.

“I will come, of course,” she said at last, her voice very low, “if you wish it.”

Sir Roland did not respond at once. Then, as his silence was beginning to disquiet her again, he laid a steady hand upon the shadowing hair.

“My dear,” he said gently, “have you no wishes upon the subject?”

Again she started at his touch, and again, as if to rectify the start, drew ever so slightly nearer to him. It was many, many days since she had heard that tone from him.

“My wishes are yours,” she told him faintly.

His hand was caressing her softly, very softly. Again he was silent for a while, and into her heart there began to creep a new feeling that made her gradually forget the immensity of her relief. She sat motionless, save that her head drooped a little lower, ever a little lower.

“Naomi,” he said, at last, “I have been thinking a good deal lately. We seem to have been wandering round and round in a circle. I have been wondering if we could not by any means find a way out?”

She made a sharp, involuntary movement. What was this that he was saying to her?

“I don’t quite understand,” she murmured.

His hand pressed a little upon her, and she knew that he was bending down.

“You are not happy,” he said, with grave conviction.

She could not contradict him.

“It is my own fault,” she managed to say, without lifting her head.

“I do not think so,” he returned, “at least, not entirely. I know that there have frequently been times when you have regretted your marriage. For that you were not to blame.” He paused an instant. “Naomi,” he said, a new note in his voice, “I think I am right in believing that, notwithstanding this regret, you do not in your heart wish to leave me?”

She quivered, and hid her face in silence.

He waited a few seconds, and finally went on as if she had answered in the affirmative.

“That being so, I have a foundation on which to build. I would not ask of you anything which you feel unable to grant. But there is only one way for us to get out of the circle that I can see. Will you take it with me, Naomi? Shall we go away together, and leave this miserable estrangement behind us?”

His voice was low and tender. Yet she felt instinctively that he had not found it easy to expose his most sacred reserve thus. She moved convulsively, trying to answer him, trying for several unworthy moments to accept in silence the shelter his generosity had offered her. But her efforts failed, for she had not been moulded for deception; and this new weapon of his had cut her to the heart. Heavy, shaking sobs overcame her.

“Hush!” he said. “Hush! I never dreamed you felt it so.”

“Ah, you don’t know me!” she whispered. “I–I am not what you think me. I have disobeyed you, deceived you, cheated you!” Humbled to the earth, she made piteous, halting confession before her tyrant. “I was at the masquerade tonight. I waltzed–and afterwards went into the maze–in the dark–with a stranger–who made love to me. I never–meant you–to know.”