I was decidedly disappointed by the inopportune arrival of Mr. Walter Monk. His daughter was just about to tell me much that I greatly desired to know, and his abrupt entrance had prevented her from speaking freely. It was most provoking, as I might not easily find her again in a confidential mood. However, as things were, it only remained to accept the situation philosophically, so I dismissed the lost opportunity with a shrug and turned to examine the new-comer. Already he was embracing the girl, whom he rather effectedly called "daughterling." I summed up his character from his use of that exotic word. Mr. Monk presented himself, as a dapper, small-sized man, with a clean-shaven face, smooth grey hair parted accurately in the middle of his small head, and a pince-nez, which usually concealed two shallow brown eyes. On removing an expensive travelling-coat, lined with sable, he appeared in an admirably-cut tweed suit, with smart brown shoes, dark-blue socks, and a silk scarf of the same hue knotted neatly under an immaculately white collar. He struck me as a lap-dog man: a dandy, a _petit-mâitre_, too precisely dressed, too finicky--that's the exact word--in his manner: too effeminate in his way of speaking. There was a suggestion of Miss Destiny's mincing ways in his whole attitude. How such a doll-like piece of humanity came to have so tall and stately a daughter was a question I could not answer, until it struck me that Gertrude might take after her deceased mother. Then I wondered afresh how such a woman could have married such a manikin. "I am glad to see you, dear," said Gertrude, kissing him in such a motherly way, "but I did not hear the bell." "I let myself in by using my latch-key," replied Mr. Monk, disengaging himself from an embrace which somewhat disarranged his careful attire, "and this gentleman, Gerty dear?" "Mr. Vance--Mr. Cyrus Vance, the dramatist." "How are you, Mr. Vance. I think," Mr. Monk put his finger reflectively to his forehead, "I think I have heard the name." "I doubt it," was my reply, for the disparaging insolence of the little man somewhat amused me, "my fame has not travelled very far towards the West." "Oh, I am sure it deserves to," said Mr. Monk politely. "Gerty, dear, can you give me a cup of coffee." "Dinner will be ready soon, father." "I do not want any, daughterling, as I dined in town. Rather early, to be sure, but the food was better than I could get here. Coffee, my love, coffee, and a cigarette, if you will permit smoking in your drawing-room."