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.
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