"Another present from you, Dad?"

"Open it, my dear."

"I thought so," he remarked, as the removal of the cover displayed
more American Beauties. (There were five dozen;) I counted them
after Dad had gone. Another million roses and in the middle of
January! "Who's the spendthrift this time, Elizabeth?"

"His name," I said, slipping a card: from the envelope that lay on a
huge bow of red ribbon, "is Mr. Blakely Porter."

Although I know, now, there are many things more beautiful, I
believed, then, that nothing more beautiful had ever happened; for
it was the first time a man had ever sent me roses. Nineteen years
old, and my first roses! They made me so happy. Paris seemed very
far away; the convent was a mythical place I had seen in a dream;
nothing was real but Dad, and America, and the roses somebody, had
sent. Somebody!




Chapter Four


Mr. Porter arrived on time to the minute, looking perfectly splendid
in a wonderful furlined coat. And if his eyes were anxious, and his
manner a bit constrained at first, it didn't last long; Dad's