how can I possibly direct you," replied she, "when I don't know the way myself?" We apologised for troubling her, explaining that we had no idea that she was in the same predicament as ourselves, and to propitiate her we offered her the loan of our useless map! We thought the act looked polite, and that perhaps she could understand it better than we could. The offer was a strategic blunder. We realised this as soon as it was made. "If you've got a map," exclaimed she, "why don't you consult it?" Under the circumstances our retort was not very clear. So we wisely said nothing, but quietly consulted between ourselves which road we should take at a venture. "I think straight ahead looks the most travelled and direct," I said. "The one to the left looks much the prettiest," remarked my wife; "let us take it, we are in no hurry to get anywhere, and we shall eventually arrive somewhere—we always do. Put the stupid map away, and let us drive along the pretty road and chance where it leads." So the picturesque prevailed. Perhaps I may here incidentally state that when we set out from Lincoln, Woodhall Spa was our proposed destination for the night.
A LOST HUSBAND! As we were leaving the spot the cyclist manifestly relented towards us, and exclaimed, perhaps as a sort of explanation of her brusqueness, and perhaps in hope that we might be of service to her after all, "I'm out on a tour with my husband and have lost him! He rode ahead of me to find the way, and that was a good hour ago, and I've been waiting here for him ever since. I'm tired and hungry—and he's got the lunch with him! If you
