nel and on the verge of a quarrel
with the second _Mrs. Coventry_ about a young ass of a _tertium quid_,
caught sight of poor _Rafella_ at a window in the Bazaar, he was so
genuinely upset that he rushed back to his wife, forgave her (nothing in
particular) and lived happily ever after. Which, of course, is just one
of those things that thrusts the avenging hatchet into the hand of the
Militant.

* * *

I suppose that the "culture" (using this word in the strictly English
sense) of Streatham Hill may perhaps be a trifle thinner than that of
certain other suburbs, and, keeping this well in mind, I must try to
believe that _Candytuft--I mean Veronica_ (HUTCHINSON) is meant for
romantic comedy and is not a one-Act farce hastily expanded by its
author into three-hundred-page fiction form. The plot turns on a not
very serious marital estrangement. _C. I. M. V._ (she had called herself
_Veronica_ suddenly one day after reading RUSKIN) decided that she must
have an intellectual companion and (rather daringly) that he must be of
the male sex. So her husband's best friend dressed himself up as a
fantastic and extremely repulsive-looking poet with a red wig and padded
waistcoat and indulged in fantastic rhodomantades in order to
disillusionise her. Well enough on the knock-about stage, of course.
But, if I am to treat _C. I. M. V._ from the mildly satiric standpoint,
which I fancy that MABEL BARNES-GRUNDY would prefer me to adopt, _Mr.
Shakespeare Waddilove_ is rather a big mouthful to swallow, even if I
can accommodate my throat to the supposition that the lady would have
allowed her husband to choose her Platonic friend for her and promise
beforehand to give him a two months' trial. She did come from Streatham,
I know, before she went to live in the country; but still the trams run
all the way from Streatham to Charing Cross--and that padded waistcoat!
However there are some amusing passages in _Candytuft--I mean Veronica_,
and so I shut both eyes and gulped as hard as I could.

* * *

Do you know _Mrs. Shovell? Violet Ashwin_ she was, and married young
_Charlie Shovell_, some sort of a publisher and really rather a nice
fool. She is an absolute dear. Gay and loyal and adorably kind. No, not
a bit sentimental. Shy and yet has a way with her, and, thank Heaven,
not the least bit of a scalp-hunter. We did think that _Master Charles_,
who was distinctly by way of being a philanderer, mightn't perhaps run
quite s