For a moment she stood there, shaking, ghastly, staring down into the regions below, where relief lay within her reach.  And she dared not even stare too long; she turned blindly, arms outstretched, feeling her way back.  Every sense within her seemed for the moment deadened; sounds scarcely penetrated, had no meaning; she heard the grille clash, steps on the stair; she was trying to get back to the library, paused to rest at the door, was caught in two strong arms, drawn into them: 

“Duane,” she whispered.

“Darling!”—­and as he saw her face—­“My God!”

“Mine, too, Duane.  Don’t be afraid; I’m holding firm, so far.  But I am very, very ill.  Could you help me a little?”

“Yes, child!—­yes, little Geraldine—­my little, little girl——­”

“Can you stay near me?”

“Yes!  Good God, yes!”

“How long?”

“As long as you want me.”

“Then I can get through with this.  I think to-night decides....  If you will remain with me—­for a while——­”

“Yes, dear.”

He drew a chair to the fire; she sank into it; he seated himself beside her and she clung to his hand with both of hers.

His eyes fell upon her wrist where the marks of her teeth were imprinted; he felt her body trembling, saw the tragedy in her eyes, rose, lifted her as though she were a child, and seating himself, drew her close against his breast.

The night was a hard one; sometimes in an access of pain she struggled for freedom, and all his strength was needed to keep her where she lay.  At times, too, her senses seemed clouded, and she talked incoherently; sometimes she begged for relief, shamelessly craved it; sometimes she used all her force, and, almost beside herself, defied him, threatened him, turned on him infuriated; but his strength held her locked in a vicelike embrace, and, toward morning, she suddenly relaxed—­crumpled up like a white flower in his arms.  For a while her tears fell hot and fast; then utter prostration left her limp, without movement, even without a tremor, a dead weight in his arms.

And, for the second time in his life, lifting her, he bore her to her room, laid her among the pillows, slipped off her shoes, and, bending above her, listened.

She slept profoundly—­but it was not the stupor that had chained her limbs that other time when he had brought her here.

He went into the library and waited for an hour.  Then, very quietly, he descended the stairs and let himself out into the bitter darkness of a November morning.

* * * * *

About noon next day the Seagraves’ brougham drew up before the Mallett house and Geraldine, in furs, stepped out and crossed the sidewalk with that swift, lithe grace of hers.  The servant opened the grille; she entered and stood by the great marble-topped hall-table until Duane came down.  Then she gave him her gloved hands, looking him straight in the eyes.