It was good to be in America again. I made Dad stop the car, and
have the top put back, even though it was freezing cold, for I had
never been in New York before (when I'd gone to France, I had sailed
from New Orleans) and I wanted to see everything. The tall
buildings, the elevated, even the bad paving till we got to Fifth
Avenue, interested me immensely, as they would any one to whom.
Paris had been home, and New York a foreign city. Not that I had
ever thought of Paris as my real home; home was, where my heart was-
-with Dad. I tried to make him understand how, happy I was to be
with him, how I had missed him, and California.

"So you missed your old father; did you, girlie?"

"Yes, Dad."

"And you'll be glad to go to California?"

"Oh, so glad!"

"Then," said Dad, "we'll start tomorrow."

Our rooms at the hotel were perfect; there was a bed room and bath
for me a bed room and bath for Dad, with a sitting room between, all
facing the Park. And there were roses everywhere; huge American
Beauties, dear, wee, pink roses, roses of flaming red. I turned to
Dad, who was standing in the middle of the sitting room, beaming at
me. "You delightful old spendthrift!" I cried. "What do you mean by
buying millions of roses? And in the middle of January too! You
deserve to be disciplined, and you shall be."