In most people's lives there has come, at times, a sequence of days, full of deep calm without, full of inward strife and disturbance within. The departure of Sir George Downing from Monk's Eype brought no peace to the two women to whom his presence there had been of moment. Mrs. Mote believed that his going heralded some immediate change in Mrs. Robinson's life; as far as possible she never let her mistress out of her sight, and the tarrying of Penelope from the villa an hour later than she had been expected to do, more than once threw the old nurse into a state of abject alarm. But Motey, during those still days, had lost the clue to her nursling's heart and mind. For some days and nights after Downing had left her, and she had deliberately denied herself the solace of his letters, Mrs. Robinson was haunted by the thought--sometimes, it seemed, by the actual physical presence--of her first love, David Winfrith. The memory of the hours spent by her with him at Shagisham constantly recurred, bringing a strange mingling of triumph and pain. How badly she had behaved to him that day! how treacherously! it might almost be said, how wantonly! And yet, at the time, during that moment when she had come close to him, and uttered those plaintive words which had so greatly moved him, Downing for the moment had been blotted out of her memory, so intense had been her desire to bring Winfrith back to his old allegiance. Now, looking back at the little scene, she knew that she had succeeded in her wish--but at what a cost! And in a few weeks, she could now count the time by days, it would become the business of Winfrith's life to forget her. She knew how his narrow, upright mind would judge her action; with what utter condemnation and horror he would remember that conversation held between them, especially that portion of it which concerned Sir George Downing. The knowledge that Winfrith must in time realize how ill she had used him that day brought keen humiliation in its train. 'I have been far more married to him than I was to poor Melancthon!' she cried half aloud to herself during one of the restless, unhappy nights, spent by her in thinking over the past and considering the present; and the thought had come into her mind: 'If I had married David, and then if he, instead of Melancthon, had died, how much happier I should be to-day than I am now!' But even as she had uttered the words, and though believing herself to be the only creature awake in the still house, Penelope in the darkness had blushed violently, marvelling to find herself capable of having conceived so monstrous an idea.