Another million roses and in the middle of January! "Who's the spendthrift this time, Elizabeth ?" "His name," I said, slipping a card: from the envelope that lay on a huge bow of red ribbon, "is Mr.Blakely Porter." Although I know, now, there are many things more beautiful, I believed, then, that nothing more beautiful had ever happened; for it was the first time a man had ever sent me roses.

Nineteen years old, and my first roses! They made me so happy.

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!.