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.