He and Catherine were slowly walking to Bishop’s Stortford railway station. The Viking expression had left his features; the motor-cap and goggles and overalls and gloves were tied up in a brown-paper parcel which he carried under his arm. Also, his face was very dirty. Terrible things had happened to him. A couple of policemen had taken his full name and address, and made copious entries in notebooks. Mr. H. Bullock had sworn vividly. In trying to estimate the extent of damage to his front wheel George had tactlessly turned the full glare of the acetylene lamp upon the horse’s eye. The horse had hitherto been uncertain whether the situation justified panic flight or not; now he decided swiftly in the affirmative. He rushed forward precipitately, and in less than a dozen yards had smashed off the wheel of the cart against a pillar-box. The cart sagged despairingly, and streams of bilious lemonade poured through the flooring. Mr. Bullock’s language became terrific. And then one of the policemen had said: “By the way, got your licence?” George had blushed (though the fact that he was already a deep red disguised the phenomenon). “I’m afraid--I--I must have left it at home,” he stammered weakly, diving into his inside pocket and fishing amongst letters and papers. Yet both Catherine and the policeman knew in that moment that he had not got a licence at all. Something in his voice told them. And what is more, George knew that both the policeman and Catherine were aware that he had not got a licence at all. Something in their eyes told him. And then George had wilted under the vivid abuse of Mr. H. Bullock. Spectators called out monotonously: “You were on the wrong side of ’im.” “You was goin’ too fast.” “You didn’t orter ’ave come nippin’ in like thet.” “On the kerb ’e was, a minute before--don’t know ’ow to drive, ’e don’t.” “Didn’t orter be trusted, them soit of cheps.” “Swervin’ abart like anythink: shouldn’ be surprised if he’s drunk.” And a fierce clergyman in a three-inch collar floored George with the remark: “You ought to be in jail, my man. You are a pest to society.” And then George had to push the battered machine into a garage (which was fortunately at hand), and pay exorbitantly for leaving it there. The garage proprietor was subtly sarcastic to George. Then George came back to parley with the policemen. The crowd became hostile. George rather unwisely began to divest himself of his motoring garments. Facetiousness prevailed. Catherine was the subject of much speculation. “I wouldn’t trust myself to ’im no more,” remarked a bystander. And another wanted to know if her mother knew she was out. (It was in the days of that popular song.) “’E’s a-tryin’ to murder you, that’s wot ’e is,” said a sour-faced spectator. “’E’s found another gal, an’ wants ter git rid of you.”