He was surprised in his turn. "What, don't you know?" he said. "Father had begun to make a garden in that field at the bottom of the wood, and Uncle Edmund stopped it."
Then he gave her the story, as it had been told him by Coombe that morning, when he had gone down to Barton's Close, and found him in his Sunday clothes, musing over the havoc he had wrought. The story had lost nothing in the way of incrimination of Colonel Eldridge, and complete exculpation of himself.
"I don't believe it," said Pam shortly. "If anything has happened, it wasn't like that."
"Well, something has happened, because the digging was stopped a week ago, and the men who were doing it are working at the drive here."
"Yes, Dad did say, now I remember, that he had taken on some men, who had been working for Uncle Bill. What does Auntie Eleanor say about it?"
"I haven't said anything to her. It seems to me, anyhow, as if our respective, and respected, parents had fallen out, and I want to know what line we are going to take about it."
"The line I should take about it, if I had to take any, would be that if Dad and Uncle Bill disagreed about something, Dad would be in the right."
"I say, Pam! Are you annoyed about anything?"
"No."
"Well, you're rather terse, aren't you? It's a pity, because you're looking particularly seraphic this morning. I noticed it first in church."