"How do you like it?" asked Molly.

"Glorious," I breezily returned.

"Ah, I _thought_ you would enjoy it, when--as they say of babies--you
'began to take notice.' The other night, of course, you were a little
absent-minded. Besides, it was dark, and the streets were dull and
empty. A motor _is_ just as nice as a horse, isn't it? Do say so, if
only to please me."

Now I knew why the victims of the Inquisition told any lie which
happened to come handy. I said that it was marvellous how soon the
thing got hold of one; and Molly's mushroom reared itself proudly.
"That is because you are so brave," said the poor, deceived girl. "Of
course it's having been a soldier, and all that. People who've been in
battle wouldn't think anything of a first motor experience ("Oh,
wouldn't they?" I inwardly chortled). But, do you know, Lord Lane,
I've actually seen men who were quite brave in other ways, feel a
little _queer_ the first time they drove in an automobile through
traffic, or even in quiet country roads? I don't suppose you can
understand it."

"I couldn't," I replied valiantly, "were not imagination the first
ingredient of sympathy. But--er--don't you think that omnibus in front
is rather large--near, I mean? You mustn't exert yourself to talk, you
know, for my sake, if you need to give your whole attention to
driving."

"I like to talk. It's no exertion at all," said Molly, and I fancy I