"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."
"Discipline is an excellent thing; even if it does disturb the set
of one's tie," Dad remarked thoughtfully, a moment later.
"I couldn't help hugging you, Daddy."
"My dear, that hug of yours was the sweetest thing that has happened
to your dad in many a long year."
And then, of course, I had to hug him again.
After luncheon (we had it in our sitting room) Dad asked if I would
enjoy a drive through the Park.
"I should enjoy it immensely," I said, "but I can't possibly go."
You see, there was a trunk to unpack, the one holding my prettiest
dinner gown.
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