on form, showing the two young men exposed to a sufficiency
of danger and exhibiting that blend of folly and gallantry expected
of their situation. As to the former quality, when, I wonder, will
the heroes of romantic fiction learn that the "pretty youth," with
flashing eyes contradicted by a manner of singular modesty, is
really--well, what common folk could have known her for in the first
glance? To sum up, I should call _The Chartered Adventurer_ admirable
for almost anyone else's writing, but just a little below the best
Castilian standard.

* * * * *

_The Pagan_ (METHUEN) certainly deserves to be called one of the
uncommon stories. Whether it will be a popular success is of course a
different matter. At least it confirms my previous suspicion, that
Mr. CHARLES INGE is a novelist who takes his art seriously and is not
afraid of originality. The moral of his tale, which perhaps hardly
needs much enforcing to-day, is--don't be too much impressed with the
idea of the superman, and especially don't try to go one better. That
was the attempt that broke up the happy home where _John Witherson_
had lived with his wife, his infant son and his mother and
sister-in-law (too many; but that is beside the point). _John_ had
been a schoolmaster, old style, teaching in the ancient faiths,
muscular Christianity, play-the-game, sportsmanship and the rest. But
about half-way through the War the apparent invincibility of brutal
force began to rattle _John's_ nerves. It rattled them so much that
he eventually sold his school, moved his household, including the
in-laws, to Suburbia, and set up, in partnership with two others of
like mind, as instructor of youth, after the jungle law of ruthless
efficiency. Not content with this, he proposed also to turn the infant
_Witherson_ into a prospective superman by giving him toy-tigers and
brief lectures on the rewards of frightfulness. Whereat the mother,
finding her protests disregarded, dried her eyes and set herself to
fill the poor child's infrequent leisure with anti-toxin injections
of the higher morality as conveyed in the poetry of TENNYSON. You now
take my meaning when I speak of Mr. INGE as sufficiently single-minded
to brave some danger of unintentional humour. Really my sketch has
done less than justice to a story that will hold your interest, if
only for the sincerity with which it is handled; for myself I was
first impatient, then derisive, final