Mannering looked at her, frowned, turned abruptly, and went away
whistling.

Pamela was left alone in the September evening. She betook herself
to an old grass-grown walk between yew hedges at the bottom of the
Dutch garden, and paced it in a tumult of revolt and pain. Not to go
to Chetworth again! not to see Beryl, or any of them! How cruel! how
monstrously unjust!

'I shan't obey!--why should I? Beryl and I must manage to see each
other--of course we shall! Girls aren't the slaves they used to be.
If a thing is unjust, we can fight it--we ought to fight
it!--somehow. Poor, poor Beryl! Of course Aubrey will stick to her,
whatever father does. He would be a cur if he didn't. Desmond and I
would never speak to him again!... Beryl'll have Arthur to help
her, directly. Oh, I _wish_ I had a brother like Arthur!' Her face
softened and quivered as she stood still a moment, sending her
ardent look towards the sunset. 'I think I shall ask him to advise
me.... I don't suppose he will.... How provoking he used to be! but
awfully kind too. He'll think I ought to do what father tells me.
How can I! It's wrong--it's abominable! Everybody despises us. And
Desmond's dying to be off--to get away from it all--like Aubrey. He
hates it so--he almost hates coming home! It's _humiliating_, and
it's not our fault!'

Such cries and thoughts ran through her as she walked impetuously up
and down, in rebellion against her father, unhappy for her girl
friend, and smarting under the coercion put upon her patriotism and
her conscience. For she had only two months before left a school
where the influence of a remarkable head-mistress had been directed