London was under drizzle when the four-wheeler containing Mr. Graydon and Pamela drew up at Lady Jane Trevithick's house in Brook Street.
As the time came for saying good-bye to her father, Pamela's heart sank lower and lower. By the time the cab stopped it was a mere dead weight of foreboding and depression.
One minute she looked at her father with blank despair. It was in her heart to put her arms about his neck and cling to him and refuse to leave him, as she had done when a small child and insubordinate to nursery rule. But the minute's glance checked the impulse. He was not thinking of her: he was wholly preoccupied: as she watched him, his lips moved as if in conversation with someone.
"'Ere you are, sir. This is the 'ouse," said the old cabman, not offering to budge from his box.
Mr. Graydon jumped out and knocked at the door. While his hand yet held the knocker the door was flung open by a pompous servant.
"Here, my man, lend me a hand with this lady's luggage. The jarvey seems old and incapable," he said brightly to the functionary.
The man came out unwillingly into the rainy street. The sight of the four-wheeler with its poor little trunk brought a look of amazed contempt to his face. But Mr. Graydon was not thinking of him.
When the luggage had gone in, he took his daughter from the cab.
"No, thank you. You need not wait," he said to the cabman as he followed Pamela up the steps.