out whether the latest
noise is a mewing cat, the wind in the trees or the Great God Pan flirting
with the Hamadryads. He meets in Egypt a Russian, consumptive with a hooked
nose and a rotten bad temper, and persists in seeing him as a hawk-man
dedicated to the winged god, Horus. "No one could say exactly what
happened." (They never can.) But it was something very solemn and
important, and in the end the Russian, in a fancy dress of feathers, was
found dead at the foot of the cliff, whither he had flown (or was it
danced?--well, no one quite knew). He all but carried with him little
golden-haired _Vera_, who was all but a dove. This is a quite
characteristic sample out of _Day and Night Stories_ (CASSELL). And the
conclusion I came to was that Mr. BLACKWOOD must get a lot of fun out of
staying in "cosmopolitan hotels." You need a special attitude for the
proper enjoyment of these mystical yarns. I read them all conscientiously
through, and I got far the best thrill out of "The Occupant of the Room,"
which, attempting less, was much more successful. "H.S.H.," His Satanic
Majesty, of course, who was climbing the Devil's Saddle and turned in to
the Club hut for desultory conversation about his lost kingdom with a
stranded mountaineer, left me inappropriately cold. I suppose I am immune,
a bad subject: but I feel as sure as I've felt about anything in the realm
of light letters that a charming writer is overworking an unprofitable
vein.

* * * * *

_Mrs. Vernon's Daughter_ (METHUEN) is what one might call a story of
situation. That is to say, it leads up to, and declines from, one big
_scene a faire_. The scene, in this instance, is that in which _Demaris_,
who has always previously imagined her mother to be an undervalued heroine,
finds that on the contrary she is really no better (indeed a good deal
worse) than she should be. And as if this disillusion were not enough the
poor girl gets almost simultaneously the further shock of learning that the
same adored parent, supposed by her to be a tragedienne of the first water,
is in fact no more than a handsome stick, and unable (as they say) to act
for nuts. Jesting apart, I am bound to admit that Lady TROUBRIDGE has risen
admirably to the demands of her theme, and written a story both direct and
appealing. Perhaps (dare I say?) its emotion is rather more secure than its
grammar. The fact that she makes a duchess allude to "these kind of things"