"I will go," she said.
That evening I took from my pocket a brand-new map of the British Isles—I mean brand-new last fall. Many a pleasant hour I had spent that winter at the office with a red guide-book and the map before me on my desk. With no little pride I spread it now on the sitting-room table which Letitia had cleared for me.
"What are the red lines, father?" asked my son. He had returned breathless from telling the Parker girl.
"Those in red ink," I replied, "I drew myself. It is your route. There's Southampton—where you land—and there's London—and there's Windsor and Oxford and Stratford and Warwick and Kenilworth—and here," I cried, sweeping my hand suddenly downward to the left—"here's Devonshire!"
"Where father was a boy," Letitia murmured, touching the pinkish county tenderly with her hand.
Ah, I was primed for them! There was not a question they could ask that I could not answer. There was not a village they could name, I could not instantly put my finger on. Those winter hours had not been spent in vain. I knew the inns—the King's Arms, the Golden Lion, the White Hart, the Star and Anchor, the George and Dragon, the Ring o' Bells! I knew where the castles were—I had marked them blue. I knew the battle-fields—I had made them crimson. For each cathedral—a purple cross. Each famous school—a golden star. Never, I believe, was there such a map before—for convenience, for ready reference: one look at the margin where I made the notes—a glance at the map—and there you were!
"Oh, it is beautiful!" exclaimed Letitia.
"Isn't it?" I cried.
"You should have it patented," said my son.
"Suppose," I suggested, "you ask me something—something hard now. Ask me something hard."