to assist, that's quite another anecdote," he said briskly.
"I didn't understand you intended to ring me in. Of course, I don't mean
to imply there is any special prejudice against books of travel in
Europe. About how many pages did you think of running it to?"

"My idea was three hundred," I replied.

"And how many words to a page?"

"Two hundred and fifty--more or less."

"That's seventy-five thousand words! Pretty big undertaking, if you look
at it in bulk."

"We shall have to rely upon momma," I remarked.

Poppa's expression disparaged the idea, and he began to feel round for
his beard.

"If I were you," he said, "I wouldn't place much dependence on momma.
She'll be able to give you a few hints on sunsets and a pointer or two
about the various Venuses, likely--she's had photographs of several of
them in the house for years--but I expect it's going to be a question of
historical fact pretty often, and momma won't be in it. Not that I want
to choke momma off," he continued, "but she will necessitate a whole
reference library. And in some parts of Europe I believe they charge you
for every pound of luggage, including your lunch, if you don't happen to
have concealed it in your person."

"We'll have to pin her down to the guide-books," I remarked.

"That depends. I've always understood that the guide-book market was
largely controlled by Mr. Murray and Mr. Baedeker. Also, that Mr. Murray
writes in a vein of pretty lofty sentiment, while Mr. Baedeker is about
as interesting as a directory. Now where the right emotion is included
at the price I don't see the use of momma, but when it's a question of
Baedeker we might turn her on. See?"

"Poppa," I replied with emotion, "you will both be invaluable. I will
bid you good-night. I believe the electric light burns all night long in
the smoking-cabin, but that is not supposed to indicate that gentlemen
are expected to stay there till dawn. I see you have two Havanas left.
That will be quite enough for one evening. Good-night, poppa."

CHAPTER III.

All the way across momma implored me to become reconciled to Arthur. In
extreme moments, when it was very choppy, she composed telegrams on
lines which were to drive him wild with contrition without compromising
my dignity; and when I suggested the difficulty of tampering with the
Atlantic cable in mid-ocean without a diving machine, she wept, hinting
that, if I were a true daughter of hers, things would never