“I should have asked you to come in the day-time,” continued Valentine; “but, as you know, Zack, I have the Golden Age to varnish, and one or two little things to alter in the lower part of Columbus; and then, by the latter end of the week, I must leave home to do those portraits in the country which I told you of, and which are wanted before I thought they would be. You will come with our friend, of course, Zack? I dare say I shall have the order for you to study at the British Museum, by to-morrow. As for the Private Drawing Academy--” “No offense; but I can’t stand seeing you stirring up them grounds in the bottom of your glass any longer,” Mat broke in here; taking away Mr. Blyth’s tumbler as he spoke, throwing the sediment of sugar, the lemon pips, and the little liquor left to cover them, into the grate behind; and then, hospitably devoting himself to the concoction of a second supply of that palatable and innocuous beverage, the Squaw’s Mixture. “Half a glass,” cried Mr. Blyth. “Weak--remember my wretched head for drinking, and pray make it weak.” As he spoke, the clock of the neighboring parish church struck. “Only nine,” exclaimed Zack, referring ostentatiously to the watch which he had taken out of pawn the day before. “Pass the rum, Mat, as soon as you’ve done with it--put the kettle on to boil--and now, my lads, we’ll begin spending the evening in earnest!” * * * * * * If any fourth gentleman had been present to assist in “spending the evening,” as Zack chose to phrase it, at the small social _soiree_ in Kirk Street; and if that gentleman had deserted the festive board as the clock struck nine--had walked about the streets to enjoy himself in the fresh air--and had then, as the clock struck ten, returned to the society of his convivial companions, he would most assuredly have been taken by surprise, on beholding the singular change which the lapse of one hour had been sufficient to produce in the manners and conversation of Mr. Valentine Blyth.