a sentence: "Take _Rotundity,_ for instance, the new novel by
William Blank, which, etc.," but before I was ready for it the article
was finished. In my second draft, realizing the dangers of delay, I
began at once, "This remarkable novel," and continued so for a couple
of sentences. But on reading it through afterwards I saw at once that
the first two sentences were out of place in an article that obviously
ought to be called "The Last Swallow;" so I cut them out, sent "The
Last Swallow: A Reverie" to another Editor, and began again. The third
time I was successful.

Of course in my review I said all the usual things. I said that Mr.
Blank's attitude to life was "subjective rather than objective"
... and a little lower down that it was "objective rather than
subjective." I pointed out that in his treatment of the major theme he
was a neo-romanticist, but I suggested that, on the other hand, he
had nothing to learn from the Russians--or the Russians had nothing
to learn from him; I forget which. And finally I said (and this is
the cause of the whole trouble) that ANTOINE VAURELLE'S world-famous
classic--and I looked it up in the Encyclopaedia--world-renowned
classic, _Je Comprends Tout_, had been not without its influence on
Mr. Blank. It was a good review, and the editor was pleased about it.

A few days later Mr. Blank wrote to say that, curiously enough, he
had never read _Je Comprends Tout_. It didn't seem to me very curious,
because I had never read it either, but I thought it rather odd of him
to confess as much to a stranger. The only book of VAURELLE'S which I
had read was _Consolatrice_, in an English translation. However, one
doesn't say these things in a review.

Now I have a French friend, Henri, one of those annoying Frenchmen who
talks English much better than I do, and Henri, for some extraordinary
reason, had seen my review. He has to live in London now, but his
heart is in Paris; and I imagine that every word of his beloved
language which appears, however casually, in an English paper
mysteriously catches his eye and brings the scent and sounds of the
_boulevards_ to him across the coffee-cups. So the next time I met
him he shook me warmly by the hand, and told me how glad he was that I
was an admirer of ANTOINE VAURELLE'S novels.

"Who isn't?" I said with a shrug, and, to get the conversation on
to safer ground, I added hastily that in some ways I almost liked
_Consolatrice_ best.

He shook my ha