ut he was
too late to avoid misfortune. With a feeling like sitting gently in
butter, the car sank down sideways and stopped with two wheels in the
ditch.

Mr. Britling said they were in the ditch--said it with quite unnecessary
violence....

This time two cart horses and a retinue of five men were necessary to
restore Gladys to her self-respect....

After that they drove on to Market Saffron, and got there in time for
lunch, and after lunch Mr. Direck explored the church and the churchyard
and the parish register....

After lunch Mr. Britling became more cheerful about his driving. The
road from Market Saffron to Blandish, whence one turns off to Matching's
Easy, is the London and Norwich high road; it is an old Roman Stane
Street and very straightforward and honest in its stretches. You can see
the cross roads half a mile away, and the low hedges give you no chance
of a surprise. Everybody is cheered by such a road, and everybody drives
more confidently and quickly, and Mr. Britling particularly was
heartened by it and gradually let out Gladys from the almost excessive
restriction that had hitherto marked the day. "On a road like this
nothing can happen," said Mr. Britling.

"Unless you broke an axle or burst a tyre," said Mr. Direck.

"My man at Matching's Easy is most careful in his inspection," said Mr.
Britling, putting the accelerator well down and watching the speed
indicator creep from forty to forty-five. "He went over the car not a
week ago. And it's not one month old--in use that is."

Yet something did happen.

It was as they swept by the picturesque walls under the big old trees
that encircle Brandismead Park. It was nothing but a slight
miscalculation of distances. Ahead of them and well to the left, rode a
postman on a bicycle; towards them, with that curious effect of
implacable fury peculiar to motor cycles, came a motor cyclist. First
Mr. Britling thought that he would not pass between these two, then he
decided that he would hurry up and do so, then he reverted to his former
decision, and then it seemed to him that he was going so fast that he
must inevitably run down the postman. His instinct not to do that pulled
the car sharply across the path of the motor cyclist. "Oh, my God!"
cried Mr. Britling. "My God!" twisted his wheel over and distributed his
feet among his levers dementedly.

He had an imperfectly formed idea of getting across right in front of
the motor cyclist, and then they