and lace. As he
watched the terror which these formidable beings inspired, and the
business-like manner in which they addressed themselves to their task,
as he noticed the jaunty destroyers of his race succumbing one by one to
fate, or ignominiously attempting to "get away," he would feel that the
"irony of the situation" was complete. In a vague way he would grasp the
fact--hitherto undreamt of in his dove's philosophy--that, if the pigeon
is preyed upon by man, man in his turn is preyed upon by the dowager.

There is, however, this difference between the fate of the pigeon and
his human analogue, that, whereas the former is slain outright, the
latter is often subjected to the prolonged agony of being plucked
feather by feather. Not that he thinks it agony; on the contrary, he
decidedly likes it, which is a wonderful proof of his simplicity, and
the difference in people's tastes. But in order to pluck a human pigeon
at leisure, you must first catch him. May is a good month for this
operation. About now he begins to resort to the Opera and the park, and
in the purlieus of either a fine specimen may be flashed. A clever
sportswoman will get the earliest possible information about his
movements. Much depends on forestalling her competitors.

A youthful pigeon, just emerging from his minority, or freshly alighted
from the grand tour, is easily captured. There are two principal
contrivances for catching human pigeons. The first is the matrimonial
snare. This is worked by the dowager, in concert with her daughter,
somewhat on the following plan. The daughter throws herself, as if by
chance, in the pigeon's way. The brilliancy of her charms naturally
attracts him. Small-talk ensues, in which an extraordinary similarity
between her tastes and his is casually revealed. The simple pigeon,
suspecting nothing, is delighted to find so congenial a soul. Is he
musical? she adores the divine art. A gourmand? she owns to the
possession of a cookery-book. Ritualistic? it was but the other day that
she was at St. Alban's. Turfy? He must throw his eyes over her book for
the Derby. Even if his pet pastime, like the Emperor Domitian's, were
killing flies, she would profess her readiness to join him in it. Or she
tries another dodge, and, putting on the airs of a pretty monitress,
asks him with tender interest to confide in her.

The great point is never to lose sight of him; to follow him to balls,
concerts, or races, to cleave to him li