On the afternoon of the tenth day of his stay at Kingpole Farm, and not long after he had seen the widowed daughter of his landlord go off for the afternoon to see one of her gossips at Burcombe, the little town which formed the only link between the farm and outer civilization, Sir George Downing, standing by the window of his sitting-room, suddenly saw the woman who now dwelt so constantly in his thoughts walking up the lonely road, and instinctively his eyes travelled past her, seeking the pony-cart and Cecily Wake. But the rounded edges of the hill remained bare, and Downing looked at the advancing figure with longing eyes, with throbbing heart. It seemed an eternity since they two had been really alone together, free from probable interruption and from Mrs. Mote's suspicious, unfriendly eyes. Turning quickly away, he walked with impatient steps up and down the old-fashioned farmhouse sitting-room, stifling the wish to go out and meet her, there, on the solitary road. But her coming had been unheralded. This was the first time she had come to him; hitherto it was always he who had gone to her, and he felt that even in the matter of moments she must choose that of their meeting. Mrs. Robinson did not seem in any haste. Even when actually on her way up the prim flagged path, edged with wallflower, which led to the door of the farmhouse, she turned and looked long at the wonderful view spread out below the narrow ledge where wound the rough road above which she was standing. Suddenly she put her hand to her breast; she had walked too quickly up the steep winding way from the hamlet where she had been compelled to leave her pony-cart; and as she stood, looking intently, with enraptured eyes, at the marvellous sight before her--for a great storm was gathering over the vast plain lying unrolled below--the man who watched her from the farmhouse windows likened her in his mind to Diana, weary for a moment of the chase. Her tall figure was outlined against the lowering white and grey sky, the short dun-coloured skirt was blown about her knees by the high, stinging wind, while the closely buttoned jacket, reaching but just below the waist, revealed the exquisite arching lines of her shoulders and throat. Mercury, rather than Diana, was evoked by the winged, casque-like headgear which remained so firmly wedded, in spite of windy buffetings, to the broadly coiled hair. Like all beautiful women who are also intelligent, Penelope's outward appearance--the very character of her beauty--changed and modified according to her mood. There were times when body was almost wholly subordinate to mind; days, again, when her physical loveliness had about it a mature, alluring quality, like to that of a ripe peach.