Trevor
was a trifle bombastic, with a tendency towards gesticulation, an art
which he had learned in no less a school than the Ohio State Senate. He
was a self-made man,--a fact which he took good care should not escape
one,--and had amassed his money, I believe, in the dry-goods business.
He always wore a long, shiny coat, a low, turned-down collar, and a
black tie, all of which united to give him the general appearance of a
professional pallbearer.

But Mr. Trevor possessed a daughter who amply made up for his
shortcomings. She was the only one who could meet Farrar on his own
ground, and rarely a meal passed that they did not have a tilt. They
filled up the holes of the conversation with running commentaries,
giving a dig at the luckless narrator and a side-slap at each other,
until one would have given his oath they were sworn enemies. At least
I, in the innocence of my heart, thought so until I was forcibly
enlightened. I had taken rather a prejudice to Miss Trevor. I could find
no better reason than her antagonism to Farrar. I was revolving this
very thing in my mind one day as I was paddling back to the inn after a
look at my client's new pier and boat-houses, when I descried Farrar's
catboat some distance out. The lake was glass, and the sail hung
lifeless. It was near lunch-time, and charity prompted me to head for
the boat and give it a tow homeward. As I drew near, Farrar himself
emerged from behind the sail and asked me, with a great show of
nonchalance, what I wanted.

"To tow you back for lunch, of course," I answered, used to his ways.

He threw me a line, which I made fast to the stern, and then he
disappeared again. I thought this somewhat strange, but as the boat
was a light one, I towed it in and hitched it to the wharf, when, to my
great astonishment, there disembarked not Farrar, but Miss Trevor. She
leaped lightly ashore and was gone before I could catch my breath, while
Farrar let down the sail and offered me a cigarette. I had learned a
lesson in appearances.

It could not have been very long after this that I was looking over my
batch of New York papers, which arrived weekly, when my eye was arrested
by a name. I read the paragraph, which announced the fact that my friend
the Celebrity was about to sail for Europe in search of "color" for his
next novel; this was already contracted for at a large price, and was
to be of a more serious nature than any of his former work. An interview
was pu