“I wish you could make up your mind to say what you want in plain words,” interrupted Mat. “I’m one of your rough-handed, thick-headed sort, _I_ am. I’m not gentleman enough to understand parlarver. It don’t do me no good: it only worrits me into a perspiration.” And Mat, shaking down his shirt-sleeve, drew it several times across his forehead, as a proof of the truth of his last assertion. “Quite right! quite right!” cried Mr. Blyth, patting him on the shoulder in the most friendly manner imaginable. “In plain words, then, when I mentioned, just now, how much I admired your arms in an artistic point of view, I was only paving the way for asking you to let me make a drawing of them, in black and white, for a large picture that I mean to paint later in the year. My classical figure composition, you know, Zack--you have seen the sketch--Hercules bringing to Eurystheus the Erymanthian boar--a glorious subject; and our friend’s arms, and, indeed, his chest, too, if he would kindly consent to sit for it, would make the very studies I most want for Hercules.” “What on earth _is_ he driving at?” asked Mat, addressing himself to young Thorpe, after staring at Valentine for a moment or two in a state of speechless amazement. “He wants to draw your arms--of course you will be only too happy to let him--you can’t understand anything about it now--but you will when you begin to sit--pass the cigars--thank Blyth for meaning to make a Hercules of you-and tell him you’ll come to the painting-room whenever he likes,” answered Zack, joining his sentences together in his most offhand manner, all in a breath. “What painting-room? Where is it?” asked Mat, still in a densely stupefied condition. “My painting-room,” replied Valentine. “Where you saw the pictures, and saved Columbus, yesterday.” Mat considered for a moment--then suddenly brightened up, and began to look quite intelligent again. “I’ll come,” he said, “as soon as you like--the sooner the better,” clapping his fist emphatically on the table, and drinking to Valentine with his heartiest nod. “That’s a worthy, good-natured fellow!” cried Mr. Blyth, drinking to Mat in return, with grateful enthusiasm. “The sooner the better, as you say. Come to-morrow evening.” “All right. To-morrow evening,” assented Mat. His left hand, as he spoke, began to work stealthily round and round in his pocket, molding into all sorts of strange shapes, that plastic substance, which had lain hidden there ever since his shopping expedition in the morning.