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the quiet wisdom of CLUTTON-BROCK, the learning (decently veiled for normal eyes) of FRAZER, of _The Golden Bough_; the inspired prejudices, fringed with epigram, of G. K. C. A mere catalogue of a few of the well-known writers represented, of SYMONS, GALSWORTHY, GILBERT MURRAY, BAGOT, HICHIENS, BARRY BAIN, PHILLPOTTS; and of artists such as BRANGWYN, SARGENT, SHANNON, JOHN, LAVERY, RICHMOND, POYNTER, FRAMPTON, RICKETTS, ANNING BELL, CAYLEY ROBINSON, makes its best testimonial. England has never been other than the friend of modern Italy, for the Triple Alliance was merely a freak of desperate diplomacy and was broken by the popular will when Germany (be it remembered) was giving fair promise of ultimate victory. We don't need conversion to the cause of Italy, but everything that helps to foster and develop the comradeship of the now _Risorgimento_ of the Allied Nations is welcome. And _The Book of Italy_ will serve this purpose excellently well. * * * * * More than once before now I have commented upon that almost unique gift that Mr. JACK LONDON has of transferring physical energy to fiction. His characters must always be about some sinew-straining business that makes the reader ache in sympathy. However in _The Little Lady of the Big House_ (MILLS AND BOON) the author seems to have allowed himself and his creations an unwonted holiday. Here is no fierce struggle for existence, but the fruits of it upon a millionaire ranche in California. _Dick Forrest_ was the millionaire, by heritage and his own success; a great farmer and a breeder of shires. He had a wife, the _Little Lady_ of the title, and a Big House that was one of the most eligible dwellings in fiction. A plain recital of the arrangements ("tweaks" we should have called them at school) in _Dick's_ open-air bedroom makes the ordinary home look like ten cents. Mr. LONDON certainly knows how to luxuriate when he gives his mind to it. Moreover there was a wonderful swimming-bath, with a concealed submarine chamber in which the _Little Lady_ used to hide for the terror of uninstructed guests (she was rather that kind of person), and a great music-room for her to play RACHMANINOFF in and flirt with the Other Man. This is all the tale. Eventually the flirtation becomes serious and the _Little Lady_ is driven to suicide, with a death scene of rather unconvincing sentiment. The fact is, I am afraid, that Capuan ease does not altogethe
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