"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."