But the fact only made Pamela feel prickly. 'If
father does get into a row, what does it really matter to her.
She's not responsible!--she's not one of us!'
Immediately after breakfast, Pamela disappeared. She made her way
quietly through the park, where the dank mist still clung to the
trees from which the leaf was dropping silently, continuously. The
grass was all cobwebs. Every now and then the head of a deer would
emerge from the dripping fern only to be swallowed up again in the
fog.
Could a motor-plough work in a fog?
Presently, she who knew every inch of the ground and every tree upon
it, became aware that she was close to the Chetworth gate. Suddenly
the rattle of an engine and some men's voices caught her ear. The
plough, sure enough! The sound of it was becoming common in the
country-side. Then as the mist thinned and drifted she saw the thing
plain--the puffing engine, one man driving and another following,
while in their wake ran the black glistening furrow, where the grass
had been.
And here was the gate.
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