"It can't be done," protested Doris. "The doctor will not let father go in the car, and how can we get there the same minute?"
"We shall start early in the morning, and your father will go on the noon train. Then we shall plan to get to town just exactly at two-twenty-seven, meet the train, pick your father up bodily, and carry him home in triumph."
"It can't be done."
"If Zee says, 'Do it,' it shall be done," said MacCammon decidedly. "Her confidence in me must not be shattered. We leave this town at eight-thirty to-morrow—allowing time for blowouts and quarrels en route. And if we see we are getting in early, we'll stop beneath a big tree outside of town and point out the scenery to the doctor, who does not know anything about any kind of scenery except bones and skin."
"But father—"
"Oh, the bishop can get him on the train and start him home. That's all bishops are good for," said MacCammon imperturbably. And he made the arrangement himself to the intense delight of Rosalie, who giggled at his elbow all the time he was discussing the plan with the bishop.
Then came the long lovely ride home, Doris and MacCammon blissfully content in the front seat, and the doctor taking a most unprofessional interest in Rosalie's softness and girlishness and gurgliness in the tonneau.
"Oh, Rosalie," Doris said to her teasingly when they were in the dressing-room at the hotel "smoothening up" for luncheon. "Oh, Rosalie, dear, do you still—er—wonder if you are too young to fall in love—with a senior?"
Rosalie laughed brightly. "I have decided, Mr. General, that I am not too young to fall in love with—anybody." And then she added, "But I know now that seniors are quite too awfully young to be fallen in love with—Bob Alden, for instance—why, he is a perfect infant!"
Surely enough, they had a long wait under the maples just outside of town, and MacCammon persisted in pointing out the different grains coming up in the fields around them, and the different birds flitting in the branches, and the different flowers nodding by the roadside—to the intense annoyance of the doctor, who said openly he did not care two cents about grains and birds and flowers, and very much preferred to concentrate on other things that interested him more.