Ford, which had one lung completely gone and the other seemingly a
little porous. A stream of traffic was coming down our side of the
road; no matter, we must get on. Urged on by our advice the driver
pulled out from behind the dying Ford and tried to pass. It was
fearfully exciting. Some Staff on the bank began to wave to us.
Thinking perhaps they knew some of us, or thought the girls looked
nice, I smiled and nodded back. More Staff waved more arms. We were
awfully pleased with our reception. Still three abreast on the road,
the Ford having flickered up before death, we reached the crossroads
as a large car with a flag on it came round the corner. The car
stopped dead. So did we. The two cars glared at each other. The Ford
writhed forward hideously in its death agony. I thought I felt funny,
and when Vee whispered something about "the Royal Standard" I knew
why. Royal Standard? Good Lord! I had visions of three laboriously
acquired pips being torn from my sleeves by outraged authorities. The
air was rent by my wild yell to our driver to go on--_go on_ and carry
the Ford with us on our bonnet if necessary.

What happened next is not very clear in my memory. I have a hazy picture
of purple A.P.M.'s, of our GEORGE sitting calmly in a Rolls Royce, of
irrepressible woman poking a No. 2 Brownie against the window of our car
and trying to find a perfectly good king in a small viewfinder; of the
Colonel on my right saluting, with a fearful waggle of the hand, without
his hat on, that article having been simply swept off by my own tremendous
"circular-motion-thumb-close-to-the-forefinger-touching-the-peak-of-the-cap,
etc., etc." Through the haze I saw HIS MAJESTY graciously return our
salute and I seem to recollect Vee taking his salute as a personal
compliment to the feminine element in the car, and smiling back
delightedly in return.