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Updated: July 7, 2025
It was Mannering himself who first realized who they were. "Clara!" he exclaimed to the young lady who was standing almost by his side. "Welcome to Bonestre!" She turned towards him with a little start. "Uncle!" she exclaimed. "How extraordinary! Why, how long have you been here?" "We arrived this afternoon," he answered. "You remember Hester, don't you? And this is Mrs. Mannering."
They talked for some time of Bonestre. Then there was a moment's pause. Hester summoned up her courage. "I am afraid," she said, "that you may consider what I am going to say rather a liberty. I've thought it all out, and I decided to come to you. I couldn't see any other way." Berenice smiled encouragingly. "I will promise you," she said, "that I will consider it nothing of the sort."
Gone the hoarse excitement of the shouting mobs, the poisonous atmosphere of close rooms, all the turmoil and racket and anxiety of those fighting days. He was back again in Bonestre. Below in the courtyard the white cockatoo was screaming. The waiters in their linen coats were preparing the tables for the few remaining guests. And the other things were of yesterday!
At three o'clock a second edition was out. Again he purchased a copy, and again there was nothing. The suspense was getting worse even than the disaster itself. Between four and five they brought him in a telegram. He tore it open, and found that it was from Bonestre. The words seemed to stare up at him from the pink form. It was incredible: "Polden muzzled. Go in and win."
With a little groan he made his way into the hotel, and slowly ascended the stairs. Early the next morning Mannering left Bonestre, and in twenty-four hours he was back again, summoned by a telegram which had met him in London. It seemed to him that everybody at the station and about the hotel regarded him with shocked and respectful sympathy.
Almost as he spoke Mannering appeared. He did not at first see Berenice, and from the corner where she stood she watched him closely. It was two years since those few weeks at Bonestre, and during all that time they had scarcely met. Berenice knew that he had avoided her.
He drew a sharp line between the province of the student and the duty of the politician. And now he was alone at last, free to think and dream, free to think of Bonestre, to wonder what reports of his meeting would reach the little French watering-place, and how they would be received.
"Instead of which," he muttered, as he lit a cigarette, "I shall go on to the end." The sunlight streamed down into the little grey courtyard of the Leon D'or at Bonestre. Sir Leslie Borrowdean, in an immaculate grey suit, and with a carefully chosen pink carnation in his button-hole, sat alone at a small table having his morning coffee.
Mannering, and she snubbed Sir Leslie. Clara looked on a little gravely. The situation contained many elements of interest. The first cloud appeared towards the end of the third day at Bonestre. Blanche and Sir Leslie were left alone, and he hastened to improve the opportunity.
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