bust!" rejoined Mr. Bullivant.

"Pray, Mr. Blyth," pleaded the polite and ever-admiring Mr.
Gimble--"pray let me beg you, in the name of the company to proceed with
your most interesting and suggestive explanations and views on art!"

"Indeed, Mr. Gimble," said Valentine, a little crest-fallen under the
anatomical castigation inflicted on him by the Doctor, "I am very much
delighted and gratified by your approval; but I have nothing more to
read. I thought that point about Columbus a good point to leave off
with, and considered that I might safely allow the rest of the picture
to explain itself to the intelligent spectator."

Hearing this, some of the spectators, evidently distrusting their own
intelligence, rose to take leave--new visitors making their appearance,
however, to fill the vacant chairs and receive Mr. Blyth's hearty
welcome. Meanwhile, through all the bustle of departing and arriving
friends, and through all the fast-strengthening hum of general talk,
the voice of the unyielding doctor still murmured solemnly of "capsular
ligaments," "adjacent tendons," and "corracoid processes" to Lady
Brambledown, who listened to him with satirical curiosity, as a species
of polite medical buffoon whom it rather amused her to become acquainted
with.

Among the next applicants for admission at the painting-room door were
two whom Valentine had expected to see at a much earlier period of the
day--Mr. Matthew Marksman and Zack.

"How late you are!" he said, as he shook hands with young Thorpe.

"I wish I could have come earlier, my dear fellow," answered Zack,
rather importantly; "but I had some business to do" (he had been
recovering his watch from the pawnbroker); "and my friend here had some
business to do also" (Mr. Marksman had been toasting red herrings for an
early dinner); "and so somehow we couldn't get here before. Mat, let me
introduce you. This is my old friend, Mr. Blyth, whom I told you of."

Valentine had barely time to take the hand of the new guest before his
attention was claimed by fresh visitors. Young Thorpe did the honors of
the painting-room in the artist's absence. "Lots of people, as I told
you. My friend's a great genius," whispered Zack, wondering, as he
spoke, whether the scene of civilized life now displayed before Mr.
Marksman would at all tend to upset his barbarian self-possession.

No: not in the least. There stood Mat, just as grave, cool, and quietly
observant of things about him a