rial. I'm afraid this is a
somewhat ominous introduction to a notice of _The Eve of Pascua_
(HEINEMANN), in which, to be brutally frank, I found little justification
for even such longevity as modern paper conditions permit. "RICHARD DEHAN"
is admittedly a writer who has deserved well of the public, but none of the
tales in this collection will do anything to add to the debt. The best is
perhaps a very short and quite happily told little jest called "An
Impression," about the emotions of a peasant model on seeing herself as
interpreted by an Impressionist painter. There is also a sufficiently
picturesque piece of Wardour Street medievalism in "The Tribute of the
Kiss," and some original scenery in "The Mother of Turquoise." But beyond
this (though I searched diligently) nothing; indeed worse, since more than
one of the remaining tales, notably "Wanted, a King" and "The End of the
Cotillion," are so preposterous that their inclusion here can only be
attributed to the most cynical indifference.

* * * * *

It may be my Saxon prejudice, but, though most of the ingredients of _Irish
Stew_ (SKEFFINGTON) are in fact Irish, and though Mrs. DOROTHEA CONYERS is
best known as a novelist who delights in traditional Ireland and
traditional horses, I am bound to confess that I enjoyed the adventures of
_Mr. Jones_, trusted employe of _Mosenthals and Co._, better than Mrs.
CONYERS' stage Irishmen. "Our Mr. Jones" is neither a _Sherlock Holmes_ nor
an _Aristide Pujol_, neither a _Father Brown_ nor a _Bob Pretty_, but
nevertheless he is an engaging soul and we could do with more of him. Mrs.
CONYERS' hunting _clientele_ may much prefer to read about the dishonesties
of _Con Cassidy_ and his fellow-horse-copers and the simple but heroic
_O'Toole_ and his supernatural friends. But, as the average Irish hunting
man cares little more for books than he does for bill-collectors, his
preference may not be of paramount importance. In any case the Irish
ingredients of _Irish Stew_ would be easier to assimilate if Mrs. CONYERS
would refrain from trying to spell English as the Irish speak it. If the
reader knows Ireland it is unnecessary and merely makes reading a task. If
the reader does not know Ireland no amount of phonetic spelling will
reproduce a single one of the multitudinous brogues that fill Erin with
sound and empty it of sense. On the whole Mrs. CONYERS' public will not be
disappointed with her latest sh