can transmute an ugly study of
morbid pathology into a romance, you will admire the force of this vivid
little book; otherwise, I warn you frankly, you are like to be repelled
by the whole business. The title, to begin with, is an irony as grim as
anything that follows, in what sense you will find as the story reveals
itself. _The Romantic_ is a picture--what do I say? a vivisection--of
cowardice, seen through the horrified eyes of a woman who loved the
subject of it. The scene is the Belgian battlefields, to which _John
Conway_, being unfitted for active service, had taken out a
motor-ambulance, with _Charlotte Redhead_ as one of his drivers. All the
background of this part of the tale is wonderfully realised, a thing of
actual and unforgetable experience. Here gradually the first tragedy of
_Conway_ is made clear, though shielded and ignored as long as possible
by the loyalty of fellow-workers and the obstinate disbelief of the
girl. Perhaps you think I am making too much of it all; treacherous
nerves were the lot of many spiritually noble men in that hell. But
little by little conviction of a deeper, less understandable, horror
creeps upon the reader, only to be explained and confirmed on the last
page. To be honest, _The Romantic_ is an ugly, a detestably ugly book,
but of its cleverness there can be no question.

* * * * *

It would appear that Mr. A. E. W. MASON is another of those who hold
that the day of war-novels is not yet done. Anyhow, _The Summons_
(HODDER AND STOUGHTON) shows him dealing out all the old familiar cards,
spies and counter-spies, submarines and petrol bases and secret ink. It
must be admitted that the result is unexpectedly archaic. Perhaps also
Mr. MASON hardly gives himself a fair chance. The "summons" to his hero
(who, being familiar with the Spanish coast, is required when War breaks
out to use this knowledge for submarine-thwarting) is too long delayed,
and all the non-active service part of the tale suffers from a very dull
love-interest and some even more dreary racing humour. Archaic or not,
however, _Hillyard's_ anti-spy adventures, in an exquisite setting that
the author evidently knows as well as his hero, are good fun enough. But
the home scenes had (for me at least) a lack of grip and conviction by
no means to be looked for from a writer of Mr. MASON'S experience. His
big thrill, the suicide of the lady who first sends by car to the local
paper th