information from which she retails; how secretaries of Ministers came out to say that Ministers would see her in a few moments; and how, beyond and above all, the QUEEN, when she inspected Westminster Bridge kitchen, asked of a certain substance, “What’s that?” and Princess MARY at once replied, “Maize” (just like that).  This kind of anecdote, by the way, which our long-suffering Royal Family has to endure in the Press might very well be made actionable under a new lese-majeste law.  There are better things than this in the book, but on balance I don’t really think it establishes a fair case for existence.  The most interesting thing in it is a detailed account of the canteen systems at the Renault and Citroen works near Paris.

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There is a great falling off in quality as between The Pointing Man and the anonymous authoress’s latest effort, The Man Who Tried Everything (HUTCHINSON), a fact which may be partly accounted for by the brief time elapsing between its appearance and that of its immediate forerunner, The Man from Trinidad.  Her new book is a war spy story—­an exacting form of fiction in any event—­and deals with German revolutionary machinations in the Orient.  It fails because it moves too rapidly and covers far too much ground.  The writer has neither the gift nor the general information necessary for this class of adventurous fiction.  Her genius lies in her power of reproducing the atmosphere of crime and intrigue; but her Orient and her Orientals seem to have lost their hold on the reader’s imagination.  And I venture to remind her that it is fatal in this kind of story to replace known facts by unnecessary fiction; for example, to speak, as she does, of a German warship in the Indian Ocean as the Bluecher, when all the world knows that that particular vessel was elsewhere.  It will be easily understood that she gives us a hero who wins his heart’s desire, and numerous plotters of various nationalities who are all safely foiled, the entire romance being conducted with a ladylike absence of the bloodshed that usually accompanies this class of fiction.  That is its best recommendation.

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The fact that The Pearl (BLACKWELL) is described in its sub-title as “A Story of School and Oxford Life,” may perhaps somewhat mislead you.  Let me therefore hasten to explain that the school is for girls, and the Oxford life is that enjoyed by wearers of whatever may be the modern substitute for skirts.  Not too immediately modern indeed, as the events fall within the period of the South African war, a fact that will, of course, much increase their appeal for those whose Oxford memories belong to the same epoch.  But it is naturally a book difficult for the male reviewer to appraise with exactitude.  All I can say, being unconversant with the domestic politics of a ladies’ college, is that I should