"I used to, too. But I was always afraid of their being toadstools. They're poisonous, aren't they?"
"Deadly. By the way, there are six hansoms full of toadstools at the cross-roads which I observe we are approaching."
"I don't believe you."
I was wrong. But there was a waggon full of logs and a limousine full of children, which were rather worse.
We proceeded amid faint cries of indignation.
"What do you do," said I, "when you come to a level-crossing with the gates shut?"
"I don't," said Miss Childe.
I was still working this out, when my companion slowed down and brought the car to a standstill in front of a high white gate bearing the legend "Private," and keeping a thin brown road that ran for a little way between fair meadows before plunging into a swaying beechwood.
"Anything the matter?" I asked.
Miss Childe laid a hand on my arm.