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Van Twiller had actually been very deeply interested not in an actress, for the legitimate drama was not her humble walk in life, but in Mademoiselle Olympe Zabriski, whose really perilous feats on the trapeze had astonished New York the year before, though they had failed to attract Delaney and me the night we wandered into the up-town theatre on the trail of Van Twiller's mystery.
Walking home from the theatre that first night, it flitted through Van Twiller's mind that if he could give this girl's set of nerves and muscles to any one of the two hundred high-bred women he knew, he would marry her on the spot and worship her forever. The following evening he went to see Mademoiselle Olympe again.
Van Twiller had actually been very deeply interested not in an actress, for the legitimate drama was not her humble walk in life, but in Mademoiselle Olympe Zabriski, whose really perilous feats on the trapeze had astonished New York the year before, though they had failed to attract Delaney and me the night we wandered into the up-town theatre on the trail of Van Twiller's mystery.
In this second edition of Van Twiller's fatuity, his case was even worse than before. He not only thought of Olympe quite a number of times between breakfast and dinner, he not only attended the interlude regularly, but he began, in spite of himself, to occupy his leisure hours at night by dreaming of her. This was too much of a good thing, and Van Twiller regarded it so.
He handed the reins over to Margaret and sprang down, running across a little bridge, and soon gathered a great handful. "Oh, thank you," and her eyes shone. "What a funny little bridge." "That's Kissing Bridge." "Who do you have to kiss?" asked the little girl mirthfully. "Well, a long while ago, in Van Twiller's time, I guess," with a twinkle in his eye, "there wasn't any bridge.
That was something possible only with the discovery of perpetual motion. Taken from her theatrical setting, from her lofty perch, so to say, on the trapeze-bar, Olympe Zabriski would have shocked every aristocratic fibre in Van Twiller's body. He was simply fascinated by her marvelous grace and elan, and the magnetic recklessness of the girl.
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.
Walking home from the theatre that first night, it flitted through Van Twiller's mind that if he could give this girl's set of nerves and muscles to any one of the two hundred high-bred women he knew, he would marry her on the spot and worship her forever. The following evening he went to see Mademoiselle Olympe again.
In this second edition of Van Twiller's fatuity, his case was even worse than before. He not only thought of Olympo quite a number of times between breakfast and dinner, he not only attended the interlude regularly, but he began, in spite of himself, to occupy his leisure hours at night by dreaming of her. This was too much of a good thing, and Van Twiller regarded it so.
The channel was so narrow and so shallow in Van Twiller's time that the cattle could wade across it. It was given its name more than a hundred years ago, from boats which drew very little water, and were the only craft able to get through the channel, and which took buttermilk from Long Island to the markets of New York.
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