An old woman with a clean white cap—Mrs. Wincher _vice_ Mrs. Babb dismissed—opened the door. Was Mr. Davoren at home? Yes. Was anybody with him? Yes, Mrs. Bertram, his sister. Geoffrey dashed back to the cab, blindly thrust some loose silver into the cabman’s hand, and dismissed him elated, with at least double his fare, and then, this duty done, he walked into the parlour. The room looked curiously changed since he had seen it last. The furniture was the same, no doubt; the same dull red-and-brown paper lined the narrow walls; yet everything had a brighter look—a look that was even homelike. A fire burned cheerily in the small grate, a tea-tray stood ready on the table; Lucius sat on one side of the hearth, Janet on the other. She wore a black dress, against whose dense hue her complexion showed pure as marble. They both looked up, somewhat startled by the opening of the door—still more startled when they recognised the intruder. Lucius had a guilty feeling. In the excitement of the last fortnight he had forgotten all about Geoffrey. ‘Dear old Geoff!’ he exclaimed, speedily recovering from that sense of guilt. ‘How good of you to turn up in such an unexpected way! Where have you come from?’ ‘Hillersdon—Foxley-road, that is to say. I called at Foxley this morning, Mrs. Bertram, and not finding you, ventured to come on here.’ Janet blushed, but answered not a word. ‘You’ve just come from Foxley?’ cried Lucius; ‘there never was such a fellow for tearing up and down the earth, except that person who must be nameless. You haven’t dined, of course? You shall have some chops. Ring the bell, Janet; that one on your side of the fire does ring, if you give the handle a good jerk. Dear old Geoff, it is so good of you to come, and I’ve so much to tell you.’ ‘Yes,’ answered Geoffrey with a gloomy look, ‘I got your letter. It was that which brought me here.’ ‘Wonderful things have happened since I wrote that letter, Geoff. But let me see about your dinner, and we’ll talk seriously afterwards.’ Geoffrey made no objection. He sat in a shadowy corner, silent, stealing a look at the face he loved every now and then, and very despondent in spirit. He was with her once more, and now began to ask himself how he could ever bid her that lifelong farewell he had thought of. No, he could never so sacrifice his own fondest desires. If it were but a crumb she could give him, he would take that crumb and be passably content. He would be like Dives in the place of torment, and if he could not have that nectar-draught for which his soul languished, he would ask for but one drop of water. He would not be self-banished from the light; better even that he should be consumed—annihilated—by its too vivid glory.