intrude themselves; and
certainly one has a right to jib at the Preface, which seems to suggest
that the novel, written before war broke out, was to enlighten the
public, by a sugar-coated method, as to the general terrain of the
conflict inevitable at some future date, so that we might "better
picture the work our loved ones were doing at the Front." If this were
indeed so, then it was distinctly untactful that the only British
officer who appears should be a tosh-talking General obviously too fond
of his food. The fact is that the topical preface is being overdone
these days.

* * *

My only complaint against _The Flute of Arcady_ (STANLEY PAUL) is that
Miss KATE HORN, who wrote it, seems somewhat to have disregarded the
classic advice of _Mr. Curdle_ to _Nicholas Nickleby_ in the matter of
observing the unities. It struck me, indeed, that she had begun it as a
Cinderella-tale and then found that there wasn't enough of this to go
round. Thus the early chapters roused my sympathetic interest for
_Charlotte Clairvaux_ (the bullied companion of the hateful cat, _Mrs.
Menzies_) and her admiring suitor, _Dr. Shuckford_. I felt deeply for
poor _Charlotte_, and longed for the moment when the doctor, who was
eminently desirable, would fold her in his manly arms. But this moment
came confusingly early, in the third chapter, and left us with
three-quarters of the book to fill up. So _Charlotte_, for no
reason--that I could see--but this of space, refuses her _Shuckford_,
and off go she and _Mrs. Menzies_ to Versailles, where they meet a good
number of pleasantly-drawn people, and encounter a variety of
adventures, some amusing, some merely farcical. Without doubt Miss HORN
has a pretty wit, but I admired its exercise far more in character than
incident. There is, for example, a delightful new version of _Mrs.
Malaprop_ in the lady whose ambition it was "to live in a mayonnaise in
a good part of London." I loved her, and the terrible French infant, and
the nuns, and the old countess and the other Versailles folk. But of the
incidents, fantastic adventures with elephants and such, one sometimes
feels that their humour is, as the author says of _M. de Lafontaine's_
smile, a thing that seemed to be jerked out by machinery. Yet I am bound
to confess that it made me laugh. So why grumble?

* * * * *

Illustration: THE WILHELM MISTLETOE.

A CARD OF TEUTONIC ORIGIN NOT LIKELY TO HAVE A BIG S