"I'm a femme watt-man" said Molly, biting a large piece from a sandwich.
Arnold explained to the others: "That's Parisian for a lady motor-driver; some name!"
"Well, you won't be that, or anything else alive, if you go on driving your car at the rate I saw it going past the house this morning," said her grandfather. He spoke with an assumption of grandfatherly severity, but his eyes rested on her with a grandfather's adoration.
"Oh, I'd die if I went under thirty-five," observed Miss Sommerville negligently.
"Why, Mr. Sommerville," Arnold backed up his generation. "You can't call thirty-five per hour dangerous, not for a girl who can drive like Molly."
"Oh, I'm as safe as if I were in a church," continued Molly. "I keep my mind on it. If I ever climb a telegraph-pole you can be sure it'll be because I wanted to. I never take my eye off the road, never once."
"How you must enjoy the landscape," commented her grandfather.
"Heavens! I don't drive a car to look at the landscape!" cried Molly, highly amused at the idea, apparently quite new to her.
"Will you gratify the curiosity of the older generation once more, and tell me what you do drive a car for?" inquired old Mr. Sommerville, looking fondly at the girl's lovely face, like a pink-flushed pearl.
"Why, I drive to see how fast I can go, of course," explained Molly.
"The fun of it is to watch the road eaten up."