too successful in that you can’t hear one-third of the jokes because of the laughter at the other two-thirds (and a little because of the indistinct articulation of one or two of the players).  Of course when I say “plausible” I don’t exactly mean that any Brigade Headquarters was run on the sketchy lines of General Archibald Root’s, or that the gallant author or anybody else who was in the beastly thing ever thought of the Great War as a devastating joke, but rather that if it be true, as has been rumoured, that not all generals were miracles of wisdom and forbearance; that British subalterns and privates sometimes put on the mask of humour; that Venus did wander, as the observatories punctually reported she did occasionally wander, into the orbit of Mars—­then French Leave is a piece of artistically justifiable selection.  Its absurdity seems the most natural thing in the world and its machinery (rare virtue!) does not creak.

Rooty Tooty’s brigade then was resting—­if in the circumstances you can call it resting.  The rather stodgy Brigade-Major’s leave being due, his wife has come over to Paris to wait for him.  The leave being cancelled (and you could see how desperately overworked Headquarters was) there suddenly appears what purports to be a niece of the billet landlady’s, a Mdlle.  Juliette, of the Paris stage, with a distinctly coming-on disposition (and frock).  The uxorious Brigade-Major, weakly consenting to the deception, suffers the tortures of the damned by reason of the gallantries of the precocious Staff-Captain and the old-enough-to-know-better Brigadier.  There is marching and counter-marching of detached units in the small hours; arrival of the Brigade Interpreter with Intelligence’s reports; sorrowful conviction in the Brigadier’s mind that Juliette is Olga—­Olga Thingummy, the famous German spy.  Confusions; explosions; solutions.

That’s a dull account of a bright matter.  The players were not, with the exception of Miss Renee Kelly, of the star class and (I don’t necessarily say therefore) were almost uniformly admirable.  I suppose the honours must go to Mr. M.R.  Morand’s excellently studied Brigadier—­the most laughter-compelling performance I have seen on the “legitimate” for some years.  But the Mess Corporal (Mr. Charles Groves), the Staff-Captain (Mr. Henry Kendall), the Brigade-Major (Mr. Hylton Allen), the Interpreter (Mr. George de Warfaz) and the Mess Waiter (Mr. Arthur Riscoe)—­all deserve mention in despatches.  As for the “business” it was positively inspired at times, as when the Mess Corporal retrieved the red-hat (which the passionate Brigade-Major had kicked in his jealous fury) with an address which would have done credit to the admirable Grock.  Miss Renee Kelly had her pretty and effective moments, but somebody should ask her (no doubt in vain) to be less tearful in the tearful and just a little less bright in the bright parts—­a little less fidgetty and fidgetting and out of key, in fact.