ly curious to know how it was
going to end. I rather think this sounds like a victory for Mr. INGE.

* * * * *

It will add a new terror to the Peace if everybody who has done _A
Year of Public Life_ (CONSTABLE) in or about Whitehall is to make a
book about it. Not that Mrs. C.S. PEEL does not deserve well of her
country. She is evidently a capable person and hustled about the
country for the Ministry of Food to some purpose before the days of
compulsory rationing. Her general idea seems to be that simple folk
are tremendously interested in the most trivial and indirect details
of important folk. So she will tell you how Sir HENRY REW and Mr.
ULICK WINTOUR were fond of tea (Sir HENRY liked a bun as well); how
Mr. KENNEDY JONES once lent her his car; how Lord DEVONPORT, asked if
biscuits were included in the voluntary cereal ration, said firmly,
"Yes, they are"; how the chauffeur suddenly put on the brake and she
bumped into "poor M. FAIDIDES"; how she "visited Bath twice and bought
a guide-book," information from which she retails; how secretaries
of Ministers came out to say that Ministers would see her in a few
moments; and how, beyond and above all, the QUEEN, when she inspected
Westminster Bridge kitchen, asked of a certain substance, "What's
that?" and Princess MARY at once replied, "Maize" (just like that).
This kind of anecdote, by the way, which our long-suffering Royal
Family has to endure in the Press might very well be made actionable
under a new _lese-majeste_ law. There are better things than this in
the book, but on balance I don't really think it establishes a fair
case for existence. The most interesting thing in it is a detailed
account of the canteen systems at the Renault and Citroen works near
Paris.

* * * * *

There is a great falling off in quality as between _The Pointing
Man_ and the anonymous authoress's latest effort, _The Man Who Tried
Everything_ (HUTCHINSON), a fact which may be partly accounted for
by the brief time elapsing between its appearance and that of its
immediate forerunner, _The Man from Trinidad_. Her new book is a war
spy story--an exacting form of fiction in any event--and deals with
German revolutionary machinations in the Orient. It fails because
it moves too rapidly and covers far too much ground. The writer has
neither the gift nor the general information necessary for this class
of adventurous fiction. He