The thought of a slip, broken bones, delighted the safe people in comfortable chairs.  They laughed.  Florette laughed, too, for Freddy was waiting in the wings.

There were mothers in the audience who cooked and mended, swept and dusted, ran up and down innumerable stairs, washed greasy dishes, wore ugly house dresses, slaved and scolded and got chapped hands, all for their children.  Florette, always dainty and pretty, had nothing to do but airily, gracefully swing, and smile.  Other mothers spent their lives for their little boys.  Florette only risked hers twice a day.

While the partner played an accordion Florette ran out for her quick change.  Freddy was waiting, with her dress hung over a chair.  He flew to meet her.  His eager, nimble fingers unfastened the blue frock.  He slipped the next costume over her head without mussing a single beloved blonde hair.  The second costume was a tight-fitting silver bodice with a fluff of green skirt underneath.  Freddy had it fastened up in a twinkling.  Florette ran out again and pulled herself up into the trapeze.

While Florette went through the second part of her act Freddy folded up the blue costume and trudged upstairs with it.  Florette’s dressing room was usually up four flights.  Freddy put the blue dress on a coat hanger and wrapped a muslin cover about it.  Then he trudged down the four flights again, with the third costume over his arm.  It was a Chinese jacket and a pair of tight, short blue satin trousers, and Freddy was very proud of this confection.  He stood as a screen for Florette while she put on the trousers, and there are not many little boys who have a mamma who could look so pretty in them.

Florette skipped out lightly and finished her act by swinging far out over the audience, back and forth, faster and faster, farther and farther out, until it seemed as if she were going to fling herself into the lap of some middle-aged gentleman in the third row.  His wife invariably murmured something about a hussy as Florette’s pretty bare legs flashed overhead.  The music played louder, ended with a boom from the drum.  Florette flung herself upright, kissed her hands, the curtain fell, and the barelegged hussy ran up to the dressing room where her little son waited.

Freddy had already hung up and shrouded the silver-and-green costume, and was waiting for the Chinese one.  He pounced upon it, muttered about some wrinkles, put it into place, and went to the dressing table to hand Florette the cold cream.  He found her make-up towel, all caked with red and blue, which she had flung down on the floor.  He patted her highly glittering hair and adjusted a pin.  He marshalled the jars and little pans and sticks of grease paint on her shelf into an orderly row and blew off the deep layers of powder she had scattered.  Then he took down her street dress from its hook and slipped it deftly over her shoulders and had it buttoned up before Florette could yawn.  He handed her her saucy bright hat.  He flung himself into his own coat.