"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.