ng evening he went to see Mademoiselle Olympe again. "Olympe
Zabriski," he soliloquized as he sauntered through the lobby--"what a
queer name! Olympe is French and Zabriski is Polish. It is her _nom de
guerre_, of course; her real name is probably Sarah Jones. What kind of
creature can she be in private life, I wonder? I wonder if she wears
that costume all the time, and if she springs to her meals from a
horizontal bar. Of course she rocks the baby to sleep on the trapeze."
And Van Twiller went on making comical domestic tableaux of
Mademoiselle Zabriski, like the clever, satirical dog he was, until the
curtain rose.

This was on a Friday. There was a matinee the next day, and he attended
that, though he had secured a seat for the usual evening entertainment.
Then it became a habit of Van Twiller's to drop into the theatre for
half an hour or so every night, to assist at the interlude, in which
she appeared. He cared only for her part of the programme, and timed
his visits accordingly. It was a surprise to himself when he reflected,
one morning, that he had not missed a single performance of
Mademoiselle Olympe for nearly two weeks.

"This will never do," said Van Twiller. "Olympe"--he called her Olympe,
as if she were an old acquaintance, and so she might have been
considered by that time--"is a wonderful creature; but this will never
do. Van, my boy, you must reform this altogether."

But half-past nine that night saw him in his accustomed orchestra
chair, and so on for another week. A habit leads a man so gently in the
beginning that he does not perceive he is led--with what silken threads
and down what pleasant avenues it leads him! By and by the soft silk
threads become iron chains, and the pleasant avenues Avernus!

Quite a new element had lately entered into Van Twiller's enjoyment of
Mademoiselle Olympe's ingenious feats--a vaguely born apprehension that
she might slip from that swinging bar; that one of the thin cords
supporting it might snap, and let her go headlong from the dizzy
height. Now and then, for a terrible instant, he would imagine her
lying a glittering, palpitating heap at the foot-lights, with no color
in her lips! Sometimes it seemed as if the girl were tempting this kind
of fate. It was a hard, bitter life, and nothing but poverty and sordid
misery at home could have driven her to it. What if she should end it
all some night, by just unclasping that little hand? It looked so small
and whit