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 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 attire of the last act.

“Now that I am here, what are your highness’s commands?” Mangan asked.

“There’s a book there—­written by a friend of mine,” Lionel said, as he was helping his dresser to get off the glittering top-boots.  “She wants me to do what I can for her with the press.  What do I know about that?  Still, she is a very particular friend—­and you must advise me.”

Mangan rose and went to the mantelpiece and took down Volume I.

“Lady Arthur Castletown—­” said he.

“But that is not her real name,” the other interposed.  “Her real name is Lady Adela Cunyngham—­of course you know who she is.”

“I have been permitted to hear the echo of her name from those rare altitudes in which you dwell now,” the other said, lazily.  “So she is one of your fashionable acquaintances; and she wants to secure the puff preliminary, and a number of favorable reviews, I suppose; and then you send for me.  But what can I do for you except ask one or two of the gallery men to mention the book in their London Correspondent’s letter?”