r the chin; and these
damsels were simpering at this mark of condescension, and evidently much
impressed by the swagger and braggadocio of the miniature warrior.
However, Mlle. Girond (the boy-officer in question) no sooner caught
sight of the new-comer than she instantly and demurely altered her
demeanor; and as she passed him in the corridor she favored him with a
grave and courteous little bow, for she had met him more than once in
Miss Burgoyne's sitting-room. Mangan returned the salutation most
respectfully; and then he went on and entered the apartment in which
Lionel Moore dressed.

It was empty; so this tall, thin man with the slightly stooping
shoulders threw himself into a wicker-work easy-chair, and let his
eyes--which were much keener than was properly compatible with the
half-affected expression of indolence that had become habitual to
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