“Never,” I rejoined, “in connection with you, poppa!”

Poppa removed his hand from his chin.

“Oh, if I’m 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 have come to such a pass.  My position, from a filial point of view, was most trying.  I could not deny my responsibility for momma’s woes—­she never left her cabin—­yet I was powerless to put an end to them.  Young women in novels have thrown themselves into the arms of the wrong man