in bed, drank gin, directed various operations
with her eye fixed rather upon this world than the next, and told her
visitors precisely what she thought of them. I am thankful not to have
met this devastating lady in the flesh, because to be called "a
hookery-snidy, trundle-trailed king-crab," and then told to kiss her,
would have been more than I could bear.

* * * * *

I feel that Miss CONSTANCE HOLME will be the first to agree with me on
reflection that as a beginning of a chapter in _The Old Road from Spain_
(MILLS) the following will not do: "The long bright day idled
interminably to its tryst with night. Luis ate his lonely meals in the
silent room," etc. It illustrates a defect of her rather over-intense
method. She would readily forgive me this stricture if she could know
the eagerness with which I read her picturesque pages to find out
exactly what was the matter with the _Huddlestons_ of Thorn. From a
Spanish ancestor, who had been wrecked with the Armada, they had
inherited a CURSE. It was a very original curse, and I dare not deprive
you of the pleasure of finding out what it was for yourself. Miss HOLME
puts in her background of mystery with skilful touches and handles her
characterisation with a good deal more subtlety than your mere
mystery-monger can command. She observes both men and things with
affection, writes of them with imagination. _Rowly Huddleston_, the
committee-ridden squire of Thorn, looks like a careful portrait from
life, and probably somebody also sat for that faithful soul, _Crane_,
the butler. A book to be commended. Its defects are the defects of
exuberance, the sort one only begins to notice after one has said,
"Hello! this is pretty good!"

* * * * *

_The Greater Glory_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) is a collection of very short
sketches concerned with the War. They are a little unequal, some being
better than others, and others (naturally) being worse than some. They
all reveal their author, Miss EVELYN ORCHARD, as possessed of a
pleasantly unforced style, and perhaps rather more ease than
imagination. One of them, my own favourite, the story of a parson who
enlisted, is conspicuous as containing so admirable a recruiting speech
that I can only hope it is transcribed from life. Having said so much,
perhaps I may be forgiven by Miss ORCHARD if I add that I would rather
have read her up upon some lighter theme. Her tuneful pi