rter."

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
greeting was too cordial, not to make him feel at home. Indeed, he
talked delightfully all through dinner, and with the coffee, half
laughingly, half apologizingly told us the story of his life. "For,"
said he, "although I feel as if I'd known you always," (he looked at
Dad, but I was sure he meant me, too) "you may not feel the same in
regard to me--and I want you to."

It was sweet to see Dad grow almost boyish in his insistence that he
felt as Mr. Porter did. "Nonsense!" he said. "It seems the most
natural thing in the world to have you here. Doesn't it Elizabeth!"

It was rather embarrassing to be asked such a question in Mr.
Porter's presence, but I managed to murmur a weak "Yes, indeed!"
Inside, though, I felt just as Dad did, and I was fearfully
interested in Mr. Porter's account of himself. I could see, too,
that he belittled the real things, and magnified the unimportant.
According to his narrative, the unimportant things were that he was
a civil engineer, that he had been in Peru building a railroad for
an English; syndicate, and that the railroad was now practically
completed; he seemed, however, to attach great importance to the
cable that had called him to London to appear before a board of
directors, for that had been the indirect means of his taking
passage on the same ship with me. Then there was the wonderful fact
that he was to see us in California. He had been in harness now for
four years, he said, and he felt as if he'd earned a vacation. At
all events, he meant to take one.

As neither he nor Dad would hear of my leaving them to their cigars,
I sat by and listened, and loved it all, every minute of it. I
didn't know, then (I don't know to this day) whether I liked Mr.
Porter best for being so boyish, or so manly. But manly men who
retain all the enthusiasms of