him--roam over the heterogeneous collection of articles around. These
were abundantly familiar to him--the long dressing-table, with all its
appliances for making-up, the mirrors, the wigs on blocks, the
gay-colored garments, the fencing-foils and swords, the framed series of
portraits from "Vanity Fair," the innumerable photographs stuck
everywhere about. Indeed, it was something not immediately connected
with these paraphernalia of an actor's existence that seemed to be
occupying his mind, even as he idly regarded the various pastes and
colors, the powder-puffs and pencils, the pots of vaseline. His eyes
grew absent as he sat there. Was he thinking of the Linn Moore of years
and years ago who used to reveal to the companion of his boyhood all his
high aims and strenuous ambitions--how he was resolved to become a
Mendelssohn, a Mozart, a Beethoven? Whither had fled all those wistful
dreams and ardent aspirations? What was Linn Moore now?--why, a singer
in comic opera, his face beplastered almost out of recognition; a pet of
the frivolous-fashionable side of London society; the chief adornment of
photographers' windows.

"'Half a beast is the great god Pan,'" this tall, languid-looking man
murmured to himself, as he was vacuously staring at those paints and
brushes and cosmetics; and then he got up and began to walk
indeterminately about the room, his hands behind his back.

Presently the door was opened, and in came Lionel Moore, followed by his
dresser.

"Hallo, Maurice!--you're late," said Harry Thornhill, as he surrendered
himself to his factotum, who forthwith began to strip him of his
travelling costume of cocked hat, frogged coat, white leather breeches,
and shining black boots in order to make way for the more brilliant