Sir Leslie returned, and he and Clara departed for the golf links.  Berenice was left alone in the little grey courtyard, fragrant with the perfume of scented shrubs and blossoming plants, filled too, with the warm sunlight, which seemed to find its way into every corner.  She sat at her little table, paler than a few moments ago, her teeth clenched, her white fingers clasped together.  Underneath her muslin blouse her heart had suddenly commenced to beat fiercely—­a sense of excitement, long absent, was stealing through her veins.  The bonds which a year’s studied self-repression had forged were snapped apart.  She knew now what it meant, the great inexpressible thing, the one eternal emotion which has come throbbing down the world from the days when poets sung their first song and painters flung truth on to canvas.  She was a woman like the others, and she loved.  Her unique position in society, her carefully studied life, her lofty ambitions, were like vain things crumbling into dust before her eyes.  A year of cold misery seemed atoned for by the simple fact that within a few yards of her he sat writing—­that within a few minutes he would be by her side.  Of the future she scarcely thought.  Hers was the woman’s love, content with small things.  Its passion was of the soul, and its song was self-sacrifice.  But if she had known—­if she had only known!

He came out to her soon.  His manner was quiet and a little grave.  Self-control came easier to him because the truth had been with him longer.  Nevertheless, he was not wholly at his ease.

“You know what has happened?” she asked, smiling.  “The Redfords have taken Mrs. Mannering and her daughter motoring, and Sir Leslie and Clara have gone to the golf links.  You and I are left to entertain one another.”

“What would you like to do?” he asked, simply.

“I should like to walk,” she answered, “down by the sea somewhere.  I am ready now.”

They made their way through the little town, along the promenade and on to the sands beyond.  Then a climb, and they found themselves in a thick wood stretching back inland from the sea.  She pointed to a fallen trunk.

“Let us sit down,” she said.  “There are so many things I want to ask you.”

On the way they had spoken only of indifferent matters, yet from the first Mannering had felt the presence of a subtle something in her deportment towards him, for which he could find no explanation.  He himself was feeling the tension of this meeting.  He had expected to find her so different.  Gracious, perhaps, because she was a great lady, but certainly without any of these suggestions of something kept back, which continually, without any sort of direct expression, made themselves felt.  And when they sat down she said nothing.  He had the feeling that it was because she dared not trust herself to speak.  Surprise and agitation kept him, too, silent.

At last she spoke.  Her voice was not very steady, and she avoided looking at him.