, for that every writer must do a little; but he has followed his
life so very closely, so often photographed his own emotions, that
unless life holds for him many more adventures, and unless he can retain
the power to give minor incident individual quality, he may find himself
written out. For Mr Lawrence has not what is called ideas. He is
stimulated by the eternal rather than by the fugitive; the fact of the
day has little significance for him; thus, if he does not renew himself
he may become monotonous, or he may cede to his more dangerous tendency
to emphasise overmuch. He may develop his illusion of culture among the
vulgar until it is incredible; he may be seduced by the love he bears
nature and its throbbings into allowing his art to dominate him. Already
his form is often turgid, amenable to no discipline, tends to lead him
astray. He sees too much, feels significances greater than the actual;
with arms that are too short, because only human, he strives to embrace
the soul of man. This is exemplified in his last novel, _The Rainbow_,
of which little need be said, partly because it has been suppressed, and
mainly because it is a bad book. It is the story of several generations
of people so excessive sexually as to seem repulsive. With dreadful
monotony the women exhibit riotous desire, the men slow cruelty, ugly
sensuality; they come together in the illusion of love and clasp hatred
within their joined arms. As in _Sons and Lovers_, but with greater
exaggeration, Mr Lawrence detects hate in love, which is not his
invention, but he magnifies it into untruth. His intensity of feeling
has run away with him, caused him to make particular people into
monsters that mean as little to us, so sensually crude, so flimsily
philosophical are they, as any Medusa, Medea, or Klytemnestra. _The
Rainbow_, as also some of Mr Lawrence's verse, is the fruit of personal
angers and hatreds; it was born in one of his bad periods from which he
must soon rescue himself. If he cannot, then the early hopes he aroused
cannot endure and he must sink into literary neurasthenia.

2. AMBER REEVES

'I don't agree with you at all.' As she spoke I felt that Miss Amber
Reeves would have greeted as defiantly the converse of my proposition.
She stood in a large garden on Campden Hill, where an at-home was
proceeding, her effect heightened by Mr Ford Madox Hueffer's weary
polish, and the burning twilight of Miss May Sinclair. Not far off Mr
Wyndha