“One of my informants says that he was awakened by
    shells passing beside his window which rushed screaming
    inland.”—­Daily Paper.

This was evidently “a magic casement opening on the foam of perilous seas.”  A French window would have shown more courage.

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[Illustration:  “GOOD GRACIOUS, BABY, HERE ARE SOME PEOPLE COMING!  GET BACK TO YOUR DRESSING-ROOM AT ONCE.”]

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(BY MR. PUNCH’S STAFF OF LEARNED CLERKS.)

It was a special duty of the late JOHN F. MACDONALD, who was cut off in his prime after incautiously adding to his journalistic labours in Paris the voluntary and too exacting duties of entertaining the wounded, to emphasize the Entente Cordiale.  Ever since KING EDWARD laid the foundation of that understanding between England and France, it was Mr. MACDONALD’S delight as well as his livelihood to study every facet of it, both in Paris and in London, and with unfailing humour and spirit, fortified by swift insight, to present each in turn to his readers.  The two best papers in the first volume of the posthumous collection of his writings are those which describe in vivid kindly strokes the triumphant impact of the late KING on the Parisians some fourteen years ago, and the visit, not long after, of five hundred London school-children to the French capital.  Had Mr. MACDONALD been spared to prepare this book himself, there is no doubt that he would have subjected his essays to revision and brought them into a more harmonious whole; but as they stand, gathered together in this volume, Two Towns—­One City (GRANT RICHARDS), by the proud hands of his mother, they have charm and vitality and the authenticity of first-hand knowledge and lively sympathy.  The War, as we have just been reminded by an impressive memorial service, has made deep gaps in the ranks of English journalists, and the loss of JOHN F. MACDONALD’S quick eyes, happy choice of words, and intensely human apprehensions was far from being the least.

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Whether you enjoy The House in Marylebone (DUCKWORTH) will depend entirely upon your taste for the society of a number of hardworking but sentimental “business girls.”  For this is the whole matter of Mrs. W.K.  CLIFFORD’S book.  I call her girls sentimental, because (for all that they are supposed to be chiefly concerned with living their own lives) you will be struck at once with the extent to which they contrive to mix themselves up with the lives of any male creatures who venture over the horizon.  “Our little republic,” says one of its inmates towards the end of the book, “is firmly feminine and hasn’t done much falling in love.”  Well, well—­I suppose this is a question that turns upon your definition of the word “much;” to me personally they seldom seemed to be doing, or