That Van Twiller, haunting the theatre with the persistency of an ex-actor, conducted himself so discreetly as not to draw the fire of Mademoiselle Olympe’s blue eyes shows that Van Twiller, however deeply under a spell, was not in love.  I say this, though I think if Van Twiller had not been Van Twiller, if he had been a man of no family and no position and no money, if New York had been Paris and Thirty-fourth Street a street in the Latin Quarter—­but it is useless to speculate on what might have happened.  What did happen is sufficient.

It happened, then, in the second week of Queen Olympe’s second unconscious reign, that an appalling Whisper floated up the Hudson, effected a landing at a point between Spuyten Duyvil Creek and Cold Spring, and sought out a stately mansion of Dutch architecture standing on the bank of the river.  The Whisper straightway informed the lady dwelling in this mansion that all was not well with the last of the Van Twillers; that he was gradually estranging himself from his peers, and wasting his nights in a playhouse watching a misguided young woman turning unmaidenly somersaults on a piece of wood attached to two ropes.

Mrs. Vanrensselaer Vanzandt Van Twiller came down to town by the next train to look into this little matter.

She found the flower of the family taking an early breakfast at 11 A. M., in his cosey apartments on Thirty-fourth Street.  With the least possible circumlocution she confronted him with what rumor had reported of his pursuits, and was pleased, but not too much pleased, when he gave her an exact account of his relations with Mademoiselle Zabriski, neither concealing nor qualifying anything.  As a confession, it was unique, and might have been a great deal less entertaining.  Two or three times in the course of the narrative, the matron had some difficulty in preserving the gravity of her countenance.  After meditating a few minutes, she tapped Van Twiller softly on the arm with the tip of her parasol, and invited him to return with her the next day up the Hudson and make a brief visit at the home of his ancestors.  He accepted the invitation with outward alacrity and inward disgust.

When this was settled, and the worthy lady had withdrawn, Van Twiller went directly to the establishment of Messrs. Ball, Black, and Company, and selected, with unerring taste, the finest diamond bracelet procurable.  For his mother?  Dear me, no!  She had the family jewels.

I would not like to state the enormous sum Van Twiller paid for this bracelet.  It was such a clasp of diamonds as would have hastened the pulsation of a patrician wrist.  It was such a bracelet as Prince Camaralzaman might have sent to the Princess Badoura, and the Princess Badoura—­might have been very glad to get.