ountainous shore.

"Infinite riches in a little room," was the expression which came
involuntarily to Paul's lips the first time he crossed the threshold of
Thespian Lodge. He might have said it of the Lodge any day in the week;
the atmosphere was always balmy and soothing; one could sit there
without talking or caring to talk; even without realizing that one was
not talking and not being talked to; the silence was never ominous; it
was a wholesome and restful home, where Paul was ever welcome and
whither he often fled for refreshment.

The walls of the whole house were crowded with pictures, framed
photographs and autographs, chiefly of theatrical celebrities; both
"Harry," as the world familiarly called him, and his wife, were members
of the dramatic profession and in their time had played many parts in
almost as many lands and latitudes.

There was one chamber in this delightful home devoted exclusively to the
pleasures of entomology, and there the head of the house passed most of
the hours which he was free to spend apart from the duties of his
profession. He was a man of inexhaustible resources, consummate energy,
and unflagging industry, yet one who was never in the least hurried or
flurried; and he was Paul's truest and most judicious friend.

The small parlor at the Englishes was nearly filled with guests when
Paul Clitheroe arrived upon the scene. These guests were not sitting
against the wall talking at each other; the room looked as if it were
set for a scene in a modern society comedy. In the bay window, a bower
of verdure, an extremely slender and diminutive lady was discoursing
eloquently with the superabundant gesticulation of the successful
society amateur; she was dilating upon the latest production of a minor
poet whose bubble reputation was at that moment resplendent with local
rainbows. Her chief listener was a languid beauty of literary
aspirations, who, in a striking pose, was fit audience for the little
lady as she frothed over with delightful, if not contagious, enthusiasm.

Mrs. English, who had been a famous belle--no one who knew her now would
for a moment question the fact--devoted herself to the entertainment of
a group of silent people, people of the sort that are not only
colorless, but seem to dissipate the color in their immediate vicinity.
The world is full of such; they spring up, unaccountably, in locations
where they appear to the least advantage. Many a clever person who would