amusement in his dealings with the people of
elsewhere. Two of the stories especially--"The Strain of It" and "What
Edie Regretted"--are grimly illustrative of some home-keeping types
for whom the great tragedy served only as an opportunity for social
advancement or a pleasantly-thrilling excuse for futilities. There
will be no reader who will not smilingly acknowledge the justice of
these sketches; not one of us whose neighbours could not supply an
original for them. Fortunately the book has other tales of which the
humour is less caustic; probably of intention Mr. MAXWELL'S pictures
of war as the soldier knew it, its hardships and compensations,
contrast poignantly with the others. On the active-service side my
choice would undoubtedly be for the admirably cheery and well-told
"Christmas is Christmas" (not exactly about fraternization), as
convincing a realisation of the Front at its best as any I remember to
have read in more pretentious volumes.

I am bound to admit that for all my appreciation of Mr. J.D. BERESFORD
as a literary craftsman I did find _The Jervaise Comedy_ (COLLINS)
a bit slow off the mark. Here is a quite considerable volume,
exquisitely printed upon delightful paper, all about the events of
twenty-four hours, in which, when you come to consider it afterwards,
nothing very much happened. The heroine thought about eloping with the
chauffeur, and the onlooker, who tells the tale, thought about
falling in love with the sister of the same. In both cases thought is
subsequently translated into action, but only after the curtains fall.
Meanwhile an affair of hesitations, suggestions, moods and (as
I hinted above) rather too many words. It is a. tribute to Mr.
BERESFORD'S art that out of all this we do eventually emerge with some
definite idea of the characters and a pleasantly-amused interest in
their fate. There is, of course, plenty of distinction in the writing.
But I could have wished more or earlier movement. Even the motor-car,
whose appearance promised a hint, the merest far-off possibility, of
farcical developments, shared in the general lethargy and refused to
move from its ditch. In spite, however, of this procrastination I wish
it to be understood that the story is in some ways one of unusual
charm; it has style, atmosphere and a very sensible dignity. But,
lacking the confidence that I fortunately had in my author, I question
whether I should have survived to the point at which these qualitie