Her old ways and manner of life lay in the background.  She had aged a little, perhaps, and grown thinner, but she had shown from the first an almost pathetic desire to adapt her life to his, to assume an altogether unobtrusive position, and if she could not in any way influence his destiny, at least she did not hamper it.  She had made no demands upon him which he was not able to grant.  She had lived where he had suggested, she had never embarrassed him with too vehement an affection.  As for Mannering himself, he had found solace in work.  Defeated at the polls, he had declined a safe seat, and remained the chosen independent candidate of a great Northern constituency.  He addressed public meetings occasionally, and he contributed to the reviews.  Without having ever finally committed himself to a definite scheme of tariff reform, he preached everywhere the doctrine of consideration.  In a modified way he was reckoned now as one of its possible supporters.

They were almost halfway through their dinner when some commotion was heard in the narrow street outside.  Then with much tooting of horns and the shrill shouting of directions from the bystanders, two heavily laden touring cars turned slowly into the cobbled courtyard, and drew up within a few feet of the semicircular line of tables.  Mannering’s little party watched the arrivals with an interest shared by every one in the place.  Muffled up in cloaks and veils, they were at first unrecognized.  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.”

Clara shook hands with both.  She declared afterwards that she was surprised into it, but she would certainly never have recognized in the quiet, rather weary-looking, woman who sat at her uncle’s side the Blanche Phillimore whom she had more than once passionately declared that she would sooner die than speak to.  She murmured a few mechanical words, and then, suddenly realizing the situation, she glanced a little anxiously over her shoulder.

“You know who I am with, uncle?” she whispered.

But Mannering was already face to face with Berenice.  She held out her hand without hesitation.  If she felt any emotion she concealed it perfectly.  Her voice was steady and cordial, if her cheeks were pale.  The dust lay thickly upon them all.  Mannering, tall and grave in his plain dinner clothes and black tie, stood almost like a statue before her, until her extended hand invited his movement.

“What an extraordinary meeting,” she said, quietly.  “I am very glad to see you again, Mr. Mannering.  We have had such a ride, all the way from Havre along roads an inch thick in dust.  This is your wife, is it not?  I am very glad to know you, Mrs. Mannering.”