ptain to share the mate's illusion that 8 deg. 20'--_The Shadow
Line_ (DENT)--is possessed by the dead scoundrel. I found the book less
interesting as a yarn than as an example of the astonishingly conscious and
perfect artistry of this really great master of the ways of men and words.
Mr. CONRAD never made me believe that the new captain would go so near
sharing his mate's superstitious panic (which is perhaps because I know
little of sailor-men save what he has taught me); and in the incident, so
curiously and deliberately detailed, of his finding the quinine bottles
filled with a worthless substitute, and letting them "each in turn" slip to
ground, I had again the most unusual shock of being unable to accept the
credibility of his invention. This is so rare an experience that it only
throws into relief for me the fine craft of this most brilliant of our
impressionists, who tells so much with such delicate strokes, so
conscientiously considered, so unerringly conveyed.

* * * * *

_This is the End_ (MACMILLAN) is the kind of book that only youth can
write--youth at its best. It has the qualities and defects of its
parentage; but the qualities, a fine careless rapture, sensitive vision, a
wayward and jolly fantasy, challenging provocativeness, faintly malicious
humour, are dominant. Miss STELLA BENSON will grow out of her youthful
cynicisms and intolerances, will focus her effects, without losing any of
her substantial equipment. This is by no means the end. It is the second
step of a very brilliant beginning. Already it shows improvement upon her
first clever book, _I Pose_; a surer touch, a finer restraint. What is it
all about? Does that matter? It is the manner of the telling rather than
what is told that constitutes the charm. If I tell, you that _Jay_ runs
away from a respectable home, and, after a grievous experiment as a
bolster-filler, becomes a bus-conductor, has a romantic friendship with a
middle-aged married man, and marries the faithful _Mr. Morgan_, her dead
brother's soldier friend, I have told you just nothing at all. I will
merely add that you will be foolish if you miss this book.

* * * * *

I have to begin by confessing that, despite its most attractive title, my
first glance into _French Windows_ (ARNOLD) produced in me some feeling of
prejudice. It was not that I failed to recognise both dignity and beauty of
phrase in the writing; o