“I don’t see what that has to do with me. I’m not Spanish; they would assume that I was ‘no lady’ and take no further notice of me; or, if they did—well, I can take care of myself. As for travelling third class, I can’t see that it is any more undignified than travelling second, and its chief recommendations, after its cheapness, are that it won’t be so deadly respectable as second, and that we’ll meet nice, dirty, picturesque, excitable peasants instead of dowdy middle-class people who want all the windows shut. The third-class carriages are generally big, open cars like ours, with wooden seats—no microbes—and at this time of the year all the windows will be open. Now, you can think it over. I am going to invest twenty francs in a Baedeker and study my route.” She nodded to Mr. Moulton, dropped an almost imperceptible eyelash at Lydia, and, ignoring the others, strode off belligerently towards the Place Bellecour. Mrs. Moulton turned white. She set her lips. “I shall not go,” she announced. “My love,” protested her husband, mildly, “I am afraid she has placed us in a position where we shall have to go.” He was secretly delighted. “Spain, as you justly remarked, is the most impossible country in Europe for the woman alone, and she is the child of my dead cousin and old college chum. When we are safely home again I shall have a long talk with her and arrive at a definite understanding of this singular character, but over here I cannot permit her to make herself—and us—notorious. I am sure you will agree with me, my love. My only fear is that you may find the slow trains and wooden seats fatiguing—although I shall buy an extra supply of air-cushions, and we will get off whenever you feel tired.” “Do say yes, mother,” pleaded her youngest born. “It will almost be an adventure, and I’ve never had anything approaching an adventure in my life. I’m sure even Jane will enjoy it.” “I loathe travelling,” said the elder Miss Moulton, with energy. “It’s nothing but reading Baedeker, stalking through churches and picture-galleries, and rushing for trains, loaded down with hand-baggage. I feel as if I never wanted to see another thing in my life. Of course I’m glad I’ve seen London and Paris and Rome, but the discomforts and privations of travel far outweigh the advantages. I haven’t the slightest desire to see Spain, or any more down-at-the-heel European countries; America will satisfy me for the rest of my life. As for travelling third class—the very idea is low and horrid. It is bad enough to travel second, and if we did think so little of ourselves as to travel third—just think of its being found out! Where would our social position be—father’s great influence? As for that California savage, the mere fact that she makes a suggestion—”