Cupids Understudy | Page 3

Dad had grown very respectful. To see his little Elizabeth
treated like a queen, while on all sides angry women were having their
best gowns pawed over and mussed; was a most wholesome lesson. He
paid the thousand and odd dollars duty like a little man.
We'd been saved a lot of bother, and nobody hates a lot of bother more
than Dad. So when the trunks were locked and strapped and ready to be
sent to our hotel, Dad went up to the nice young man and said: "I'm
Tom Middleton, from California, and this is my daughter Elizabeth.
We're both very grateful to you, and if you should ever happen to come
to California, I hope you'll look us up."
That's Dad all over!

I never saw anybody look so pleased as the young man: "My name's
Porter," he said, "Blakely Porter. If my mother were in New York I
would ask if she might call on Miss Middleton, but, as it happens, she's
in California, where I intend to join her, so I shall look forward to
seeing you there."
Then Dad did just the right thing. "What's the use of waiting till we get
to California?" he said. "Why not dine with us to-night!"
There are people, merely conventional people, who could never
appreciate the fine directness and simplicity, of Dad's nature--not if
they lived to be a thousand years old. But Mr. Blakely Porter
understood perfectly; I know he did, for he told me so afterwards. "It
was the greatest compliment I ever had paid me in my life," he said.
"Your father knew nothing about me, absolutely nothing, yet he invited
me to dine with him--and you. It was splendid, splendid!"
The dear boy didn't know, perhaps, that honesty shone in his eyes, that
one could not look at him and deny he was a gentleman. And, of course,
I didn't enlighten him, for it is well for men, particularly, young men, to
feel grateful, and the least bit humble; it keeps them from being
spoiled.
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.
"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. Of