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." 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 was apprehension as well as surprise in her voice; and he jerked his head up as though listening to it.