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Coningsby tramped to the hearth, and stood there, beating his leg irritably with his riding-whip. There was a heavy frown on his face. He did not once raise his eyes to the picture above him. He was still thinking of Lady Emberdale and the Admiral. Finally, with a sudden idea of refreshing himself, he wheeled towards the table. The next instant, he stood and stared as if transfixed.

A woman dressed in black, and thickly veiled, was standing facing him under the lamp.

He gazed at her speechlessly for a second or two, then passed his hand across his eyes.

“Great heavens!” he said slowly, at last.

She made a quick movement of the hands that was like a gesture of shrinking.

“You don’t know me?” she asked, in a voice so low as to be barely audible.

For a moment there flashed into his face the curious, listening look that is seen on the faces of the blind. Then violently he strode forward.

“I should know that voice in ten thousand!” he cried, his words sharp and quivering. “Take off your veil, woman! Show me your face!”

The hunger in his eyes was terrible to see. He looked like a dying man reaching out impotent hands for some priceless elixir of life.

“Your face!” he gasped again hoarsely, brokenly. “Show me your face!”

Mutely she obeyed him, removed hat and veil with fingers that never faltered, and turned her sad, calm face towards him. For seconds longer he stared at her, stared devouringly, fiercely, with the eyes of a madman. Then, suddenly, with a great cry, he stumbled forward, flinging himself upon his knees at the table, with his face hidden on his arms.

“Oh, I know you! I know you!” he sobbed. “You’ve tortured me like this before. You’ve made me think I had only to open my arms to you, and I should have you close against my heart. It’s happened night after night, night after night! Naomi! Naomi! Naomi!”

His voice choked, and he became intensely still crouching there before her in an anguish too great for words.

For a long time she was motionless too, but at last, as he did not move, she came a step toward him, pity and repugnance struggling visibly for the mastery over her. Reluctantly she stooped and touched his shoulder.

“Geoffrey!” she said, “it is I, myself, this time.”

He started at her touch but did not lift his head.

She waited, and presently he began to recover himself. At last he blundered heavily to his feet.

“It’s true, is it?” he said, peering at her uncertainly. “You’re here–in the flesh? You’ve been having just a ghastly sort of game with me all these years, have you? Hang it, I didn’t deserve quite that! And so the little newspaper chap spoke the truth, after all.”

He paused; then suddenly flung out his arms to her as he stood.

“Naomi!” he cried, “come to me, my girl! Don’t be afraid. I swear I’ll be good to you, and I’m a man that keeps his oath! Come to me, I say!”

But she held back from him, her face still white and calm.

“No, Geoffrey,” she said very firmly, “I haven’t come back to you for that. When I left you, I left you for good. And you know why. I never meant to see your face again. You had made my life with you impossible. I have only come to-day as–as a matter of principle, because I heard you were going to marry again.”

The man’s arms fell slowly.

“You were always rather great on principle,” he said, in an odd tone.

He was not angry–that she saw. But the sudden dying away of the eagerness on his face made him look old and different. This was not the man whose hurricanes of violence had once overwhelmed her, whose unrestrained passions had finally driven her from him to take refuge in a lie.

“I should not have come,” she said, speaking with less assurance, “if it had not been to prevent a wrong being done to another woman.”