But to return to the dinner invitation: Mr. Porter accepted it
eagerly. "It is more than kind of you," he said. "My mother is away,
and her house is closed. It is my first home-coming in four years,
and I should have been lonely to-night."
And poor Dad, who has been lonely--oh, so lonely!--ever since
Ninette died, shook hands with him, and said: "If my daughter and I
can keep you from feeling lonely, we shall be so. glad. We are
stopping at The Plaza, and we dine at half past seven."
Then Mr. Porter found us a taxi-cab, and away we went.
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.
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