The moth hovers in wide circles round the candle before it ventures its wings in the flame.
And so it was with Tom; but the catastrophe came at last.
One evening about three weeks before the time fixed for the Easter trip with Charlie, Tom felt in tolerably dull.

He had been neglecting his work during several days for novels of the lowest and most sensational type.

Over these he had dawdled till his brain had become muddled with their unreal incidents and impure suggestions, and now that they were done he felt fit for nothing.

He could not settle down to work, he had no friends to turn to, and so he put his hat on his head and sallied out into the streets to seek there the variety he could not find indoors.
As usual, his steps led him to the low theatre about which he was so curious, and of which he heard so much from his fellow-students.

It was half-past seven, and people were beginning to crowd round the door, waiting for it to open.