"She didn't hint enough. I am engaged to your daughter."
"Without my consent."
"I ask it now."
"Then you shall not have it."
I laughed. "Your consent matters very little, Mr. Monk."
"Marr, I tell you, Marr. And Gertrude will never marry you without my permission. You may be sure of that."
"I am not at all sure of it. She loves you better than you deserve, but when she finds that you are keeping her in poverty at Burwain, while you live in splendor in London, and under another name, which looks fishy, will she continue to regard you as the perfect father?"
Mr. Monk moved uneasily in his seat. "Here we are," he said, when the car stopped in a somewhat dark street; "in my rooms I can explain. And in any case I am obliged to you for carrying off the situation so well. Not that I was unprepared, had you driven me into a corner. But as a gentleman, I do not like stage melodrama in private life."
"Yet you make ready for every opportunity to exercise it," I retorted, as the footman opened the door. "Your explanation----"
"Will take place in private," he said sharply, and we alighted. The motor departed hastily--to the nearest garage, I suppose--and Mr. Monk ushered me up a flight of well-lighted stairs. "These are my quarters," he said complacently, and I was shown into a really splendid hall, perfectly decorated.