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."

His expression did not change.

"I see," he said quietly. "Who sent you? Carey?"

She flushed uncontrollably at the question, though there was no offence
in the tone in which it was uttered.

"Yes," she answered, after a moment.

Coningsby turned slowly and looked into the fire.

"And how did he persuade you?" he asked. "Did he tell you I was going
blind?"

"No!" There