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Love Instigated.

It was a daisy bit of Ivory.

It was a curious piece of Workmanship.

It was carved and carved again with Conventional Lines, which formed a Female Head of East-Indian Unexceptionableness.

It seemed to Smile and to Beckon, and then to Scowl repellantly—a Living Mockery!

It was Hateful—Oh, so Hateful!—the sight Of so conventional a Thing.

And yet there had been such a Longing to touch It and to Hold It in the Hand!

But See the Sequel.

It was not an Idol of India.

It was the Carved Ivory Handle of a Tanned Gingham Umbrella, of very Plebeian American Manufacture.

It stood in a Hand-painted China Receptacle in The long quiet Hall, in the House of a Friend. It was there when I Dined with him the Night After Christmas.

It Gleamed at me with a Sinister Gleam of its Dexter Eye!

And it seemed to Smile and to Beckon at me out of the Soft, Voluptuous Environment of The "Inner·Sisterhood," of which it was a Fellow.

And when we were seated at the Glittering Table, beautiful with Crystal and Silver—

And Lemonade and Cake—

An Esthetic Banquet—

It Chanced, by Merest Accident, that I was Given a seat opposite The Portiered Archway which led into

The