"'The Scarlet Pimpernel,'" confesses Molly.
I look surprised—even incredulous—remembering certain sweeping damnations of a month or two ago. "But surely," I venture timidly, "isn't that the very—er—acme of provincial melodrama?"
The words have a strangely familiar sound, and Molly appears to recognise them.
"Of course it is," she says. "I was taken there."
The expression suggests ropes and cart-tails, and I commiserate with her appropriately.
"Poor Molly, and of course you—you——"
But my courage fails me, and I dare not finish the question. She tosses her dark head a little.
"W-well," she stammers, and then, being very honest with herself, stops short, and begins to grow a little pink. I gasp, half rising from my chair.
"Surely," I exclaim, "you—you don't mean to say you actually enjoyed it?"
There is a moment's appalled stillness; and then, very rosy, she stoops suddenly to kiss my forehead.