We never really built cars like the Invicta, nor did the Germans or French. We never understood them. Not that we didn’t have luxury cars. While the Duesenberg was really only for swarthy Balkan princes and maharajahs, the “Three Ps’’—Pierce, Peerless, and Packard—were welcomed in those fine, tight, close circles that we also associate with the hyphenated Rolls, Hisso, and Isotta. But luxury is not just down-filled, tapestry-clad seats and three tons of bulk spread over a 150-in. wheelbase to make sure that Lord and Lady Plushbottom are undisturbed by the world outside. Luxury speaks of riotous living, the truly frivolous, the unmentionable in pursuit of the inedible. The British understand—or under-stood-it. We of the Puritan-Protestant mentality, naive believers that each man, Everyman, will someday be rich, haven’t a clue.…