Curious, I thought, that Molly, knowing my state of mind, should be
constantly weaving into our conversation some allusion to the namesake
and giver of her car. I had never in my life been less interested in
the subject of extraneous girls, and with all Molly's tact, it seemed
strange that she should not recognise this. However, she did not
appear to expect an answer, and we were soon settled in the car,
Molly, as I have said, looking like a graceful fungus growth, Jack and
I like haggard goblins.

Molly was to drive, and Jack insisted that I should sit in one of the
two absurdly comfortable armchair arrangements in front. The chauffeur
was presently to curl like a tendril round a little crimson toadstool
at our feet, and Jack took the tonneau in lonely state. This was, no
doubt, an act of fine self-abnegation on his part, nevertheless I
could have envied him his safe retirement, from my place of honour,
with no noble horses in front to save Molly and me from swift
destruction.

Physically, we were very snug, however. The luggage was fitted into
spaces especially made for it; long baskets on the mudguards at the
side were stowed with maps and guide-books for the tour, and (as Molly
remarked in the language of her childhood) a "few nice little 'eaties'
to make us independent on the way."

There was also a sort of glorified tea basket, containing, Molly said,
a chafing-dish, without which no self-respecting American woman ever
travelled, and by whose aid wonderful dishes could be turned out at
five minutes' notice in a shipwreck, on a desert island, or while a
tyre was being mended.