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 as ever. Neither the pictures, nor the
company, nor the staring of many eyes that wondered at his black
skull-cap and scarred swarthy face, were capable of disturbing the
Olympian serenity of this Jupiter of the back-woods.
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