“Licks creation! Stuns the stars! Bangs Banagher! I say, beastly sorry we barged into you like that. Took you for a turnip, honest injun we did! We’re shooting over to Bluecaster after a smoke-shop, and we thought it just as easy to tango there. And I say, look here! You’ll know what time they close, I expect. I suppose we can do it all right?” “It’s six furlongs, and you’ve just ten minutes,” Lancaster answered severely. “You may do it, with luck. But if you beat Banagher down the hill in that costume, you’ll probably find yourself in jail in less time still.” “Right-o, old cock! What’s a furlong, anyway? Anybody seen a furlong? As to the togs, why, it’s the country, the dear, silly old simple-life country! You can do anything you like in the country, or else what’s the good of it? Come on, you fellows, we’ve got to get that smoke!” They flew together again in a furious embrace, and spun away out of sight, whistling like flying engines at a crossing. The girl and the singer stayed behind, still apologetic. “You’d have gone quicker by the main road,” Lancaster said stiffly, still resentful. “But of course you probably know that already.” She nodded. “Yes. But the boys wanted to come by the lane. They love the lane. When they don’t tango, they bring the car and squeeze her along as fast as they can. The hedges are too high, though; you daren’t risk the turns. If they were only clipped so that you could see over, it would make a fine test for steering!” The singer in the background began an appeasing little chant, as if he knew that Lancaster writhed. “Perhaps some of us prefer it as it is,” he answered coldly. “Hadn’t you better be looking after your--your brothers? There’s rather a smart police-sergeant in Bluecaster.” “They’re not my brothers. They’re just stopping with us, that’s all. Are we trespassing?” She lifted an anxious face. “I didn’t know the lane was yours. I’m ever so sorry! We’d better go on, hadn’t we, after the boys? but we’ll come back the other way.” Lanty reddened, ashamed. The singer gave him a friendly smile over the girl’s head. “It isn’t my lane--of course not. There’s no reason you shouldn’t motor down it if you happen to know a collapsible method of passing carts. It’s a favourite walk of mine, that’s all. And everything was just about asleep.” She looked a little puzzled and still troubled. “I expect you _do_ feel it’s your own lane, really! I’ve only been here since March--we’re at Watters in Gilthrotin--but I’ve noticed people seem to think that lots of things belong to them just because they’ve had them somewhere round all their lives--hills and footpaths and favourite views--things like that. The man in the cottage behind us was dreadfully vexed because we cut down a half-dead sycamore by the river. He said he was used to seeing it from his bedroom window--wasn’t it funny of him? That’s what you feel about the lane, though, isn’t it? I wish I’d known! Any other lane would have done for us.”