Sir George Downing had now been there more than a week, a time of entire solitude, only broken by two long calls from David Winfrith. An old bedridden man and his widowed daughter were the only inmates of the farmhouse, and they troubled their lodger little. Accordingly, he had had plenty of time both to work and to think, and, during the long solitary walks which were his only recreation, he asked himself many searching questions compelling truthful answers. Seeing Mrs. Robinson in her daily life at Monk's Eype had affected Downing with curious doubt and melancholy, and had given him his first feeling of uneasiness concerning their joint future. Till then he had not thought of her as the centre of a world, each member of which would be struck to the heart when they learnt what she was about to do. It was characteristic of the man that he gave no thought as to how the matter would affect himself. He conceived that each human being has a right to judge and decide for himself as to any given line of conduct, and he had long felt absolved from any personal duty as regarded his own wife. After their second parting he had offered her the entire freedom afforded by an American divorce, but she had refused to avail herself of it. More, after leaving London, and before going to Monk's Eype, Downing had made a swift, secret journey to the place where he had learnt that Lady Downing was staying with some evangelical friends. The two had met in the parlour of a village inn, and each had been more amazed and moved than either would have thought possible by the physical changes time had wrought in the other. With perhaps an unwise abruptness, he threw himself on her mercy, telling her the whole truth, and only concealing the name of the woman with whom he was about to form a new tie. But Lady Downing had seen in his intention, in his proposed action, only an added reason for standing firm in the matter of a public divorce. She pointed out, in the gentle, reasonable tone which he felt was all that now remained of the Puritan girl he had once known, that Christian marriage is indissoluble. 'Your sin would be the same in either case,' she said; 'but if I consented to what you now desire, I should be a participant in your sin.' As he had not told Penelope of his intention of seeking out his wife, there had been no reason to acquaint her with his failure. But during those lonely days at Kingpole Farm Downing regretted, with bitter, voiceless lamentation, that he had failed in inducing his wife to consent to what would have so straightened the way before him. For the path which had seemed a few weeks before so clear and smooth, he now saw to be strewn with sharp stones and obstacles, which he knew would hurt and wound the creature he had come to love with so jealous and so absorbing a love, and who was about to give up so much for his sake. II