the name it spoke was "Invitation."

Leighton's first impulse was one of unbounded admiration--the admiration
we give to unbounded power. Then realization and a frown began to come
slowly to his face. Vi, crumpled up on the couch, and sobbing hard, dry
sobs,--the sobs that bring age,---helped him to realization. Lewis, his
boy, had done a base thing.

Without moving, Leighton glanced about the room till his eyes fell on
the mallet. Then he stepped quickly to it, picked it up, and crossed to
the statue. Beneath his quick blows the brittle clay fell from the
skeleton wires in great, jagged chunks. With his foot he crushed a few
of them to powder. He tossed the mallet aside, and glanced at Vi. She
was still crying, but she had half risen at the sound of his blows, and
was staring at him through wet eyes.

Leighton started walking up and down, the frown still on his brow.
Finally he came to a stop before the couch.

"Vi," he said--"Vi, listen! You must tell me something. It isn't a fair
question, but never mind that."

She lifted a tear-stained face.

"Vi," said Leighton, tensely, "did he follow?"

Vi raised herself on her arms and stared at him for a moment before she
gasped:

"You fool, do you suppose I would have cared if he had followed?" Then