“Hello!” he said. “On to me?  All right.  Go abroad.  Always done.  Paris, Venice, Florence, Rome, and the other places.  I’ll stand in.  Germanic sails Wednesdays.  Start by night train to-morrow.  Bring momma.  We can get Germanic in good shape and ten minutes to spare.  Right?”

“Right,” I responded, and hung up the handle.  I did not wish to keep poppa out of bed any longer than was necessary, he was already up so much later than I was.  I turned away from the instrument to go down stairs again, and there, immediately behind me, stood momma.

“Well, really!” I exclaimed.  It did not occur to me that the privacy of telephonic communication between Chicago and New York was not inviolable.  Besides, there are moments when one feels a little annoyed with one’s momma for having so lightly undertaken one’s existence.  This was one of them.  But I decided not to express it.

“I was only going to say,” I remarked, “that if I had shrieked it would have been your fault.”

“I knew everything,” said momma, “the minute I heard him shut the gate.  I came up immediately, and all this time, dear, you’ve been confiding in us both.  My dear daughter.”

Momma carries about with her a well-spring of sentiment, which she did not bequeath to me.  In that respect I take almost entirely after my other parent.

“Very well,” I said, “then I won’t have to do it again.”

Her look of disappointment compelled me to speak with decision.  “I know what you would like at this juncture, momma.  You’d like me to get down on the floor and put my head in your lap and weep all over your new brocade.  That’s what you’d really enjoy.  But, under circumstances like these, I never do things like that.  Now the question is, can you get ready to start for Europe to-morrow night, or have you a headache coming on?”

Momma said that she expected Mrs. Judge Simmons to tea to-morrow afternoon, that she hadn’t been thinking of it, and that she was out of nerve tincture.  At least, these were her principal objections.  I said, on mature consideration, I didn’t see why Mrs. Simmons shouldn’t come to tea, that there were twenty-four hours for all necessary thinking, and that a gallon of nerve tincture, if required, could be at her disposal in ten minutes.

“Being Protestants,” I added, “I suppose a convent wouldn’t be of any use to us—­what do you think?”

Momma thought she could go.

There was no need for hurry, and I attended to only one other matter before I went to bed.  That was a communication to the Herald, which I sent off in plenty of time to appear in the morning.  It was addressed to the Society Editor, and ran as follows: 

“The marriage arranged between Professor Arthur Greenleaf Page, of Yale University, and Miss Mamie Wick, of 1453, Lakeside-avenue, Chicago, will not take place.  Mr. and Mrs. Wick, and Miss Wick, sail for Europe on Wednesday by s.s.  Germanic.”