Blyth walks towards an earthen pipkin in one
corner of the studio, and takes from it a little china palette which he
has neglected to clean since he last used it. Looking round the room
for some waste paper, on which he can deposit the half-dried old paint
that has been scraped off with the palette knife, Mr. Blyth's eyes
happen to light first on the deal table, and on four or five notes
which lie scattered over it.
These he thinks will suit his purpose as well as anything else, so he
takes up the notes, but before making use of them, reads their contents
over for the second time--partly by way of caution, partly though a
dawdling habit, which men of his absent disposition are always too
ready to contract. Three of these letters happen to be in the same
scrambling, blotted handwriting. They are none of them very long, and
are the production of a former acquaintance of the reader's, who has
somewhat altered in height and personal appearance during the course of
the last fourteen years. Here is the first of the notes which Valentine
is now reading:--
"Dear Blyth,--My father says Theaters are the Devil's Houses, and I
must be home by eleven o'clock. I'm sure I never did anything wrong at
a Theater, which I might not have done just the same anywhere else;
unless laughing over a good play is one of the _national sins_ he's
always talking about.
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