Picture Stevens, trailing a silk scarf, driving a very loud open sports car with what the British call “assurance.” Picture an army of gendarmerie, including aircraft. Failing to catch him, they block the road ahead. Now picture the nearest constable (seven feet tall as they all are). Jerking his thumb at the Excalibur’s sartorially splendid driver, he shouts: YOU—OUT! Kip paid his fine. It was substantial.