"I have never struck a woman," he repeated, sauntering away.
She sank down on a bench, drawing the scarf about her again. She could hear the rattle of ropes and pulleys. They were fixing the wires for her performance. She stood up, waiting her turn, and looked from her shadow into the theatre.
"Oh, the eyes! the eyes! the eyes!" she muttered, "all waiting to see me fall. Let the end come soon, God, if it be your will. I am weary, weary, weary of being alive!"
II
There had been serious trouble at the Imperial Circus a few nights after this. The "shooting star," the beautiful Madame Blumenthal, would not go through her performance. The manager had spent his patience and his time in remonstrating with her; her husband had argued with more force than effect. "For the first time in his life," as he said himself, "he had struck a woman"; and the manager had looked on and not interfered. He was only sorry that he had no legal right
