The steam plough was coming in a week.

Meanwhile the gates were to be locked, and two old park-keepers, who were dithering in their shoes, had been told to defend them.
At bottom, Elizabeth was tolerably convinced that the Squire would not land himself in gaol, cut off from his books and his bronzes, and reduced to the company of people who had never heard of Pausanias.

But she was alarmed lest he should 'try it on' a little too far, in these days when the needs of war and the revolutionary currents abroad make the setting down of squires especially agreeable to the plebeians who sit on juries or county committees.
Of course he must--he certainly would--climb down.
But somebody would have to go through the process of persuading him! That was due to his silly dignity! She supposed that somebody would be herself.

How absurd! She, who had just been six weeks on the scene! But neither of the married daughters had the smallest influence with him; Sir Henry Chicksands had been sent about his business; Major Mannering was out of favour, and Desmond and Pamela were but babes.
Then a recollection flashed across the contriving mind of Elizabeth which brought a decided flush to her fair skin--a flush which was half amusement, half wrath.

That morning a rather curious incident had happened.