distanced the Byron record in one respect
at least--he had outstayed his lordship at San Lazaro!

Sometimes Paul turned hermit, in imagination and dwelt alone upon the
long sands of the melancholy Lido; not seeing Jack, or anybody, save the
waiter at the neighboring restaurant, for days and days together. It was
immensely diverting, this dream-life that Paul led in far distant
Venice. It was just the life he loved, the ideal life, and it wasn't
costing him a cent--no, not a _soldo_, to speak more in the Venetian
manner.

While he was looking forward to the life to come, he had hardly time to
perfect his arrangements for a realization of it. He was to pack
everything and store it in a bonded warehouse, where it should remain
until he had taken root abroad. Then he would send for it and settle in
the spot he loved best of all, and there write and dream and drink the
wine of the country, while the Angelus bells ringing thrice a day awoke
him to a realizing sense of the fairy-like flight of time just as they
have been doing for ages past, and, let us hope, as they will continue
to do forever and forever.

One day he stopped dreaming of Italy, and resolved to secure his
engagement as a correspondent. Miss. Juno had written him that her
sketch was nearly finished; that he must hold himself in readiness to
answer her summons at a moment's notice. The season was advancing; no
time was to be lost, etc. Paul started at once for the office of his
favorite journal; his interview was not entirely satisfactory. Editors,
one and all, as he called upon them in succession, didn't seem
especially anxious to send the young man abroad for an indefinite
period; the salary requested seemed exorbitant. They each made a
proposition; all said: "This is the best I can do at present; go to the
other offices, and if you receive a better offer we advise you to take
it." This seemed reasonable enough, but as their best rate was fifteen
dollars for one letter a week he feared that even the highly respectable
second-class accommodations of all sorts to which he must confine
himself would be beyond his means.

Was he losing interest in the scheme which had afforded him so many
hours of sweet, if not solid, satisfaction? No, not exactly. Poverty was
more picturesque abroad than in his prosaic native land. His song was
not quite so joyous, that was all; he would go to Italy; he would take a
smaller room; he would eat at the Trattoria of the people;