for a life-tenancy of the human mind; but I may be wrong); whether he would have bribed a casual tramp to marry and torment the reputed daughter who was the object of his loathing, or whether Day and Helen herself would actually so have played into his hands, are all rather questionable problems.  Far more real, human and moving is the wild passion of Helen for Martin, whom (again questionably as to truth) her enemies frighten away from her.  A grim story, you begin to observe, but one altogether worth reading.  To compare things small (as yet) with great, I might call it a lineal descendant of Wuthering Heights, both in setting and treatment.  There is indeed more than a hint of the BRONTE touch about the Ex-Mill Girl.  For that and other things I send her (whoever she is) my felicitations and good wishes.

* * * * *

I wonder if Mr. (or Mrs. or Miss) E.K.  WEEKES would understand me if I put my verdict upon The Massareen Affair (ARNOLD) into the form of a suggestion that in future its author would be well advised to keep quiet.  Not with any meaning that he or she should desist from the pursuit of fiction; on the contrary, there are aspects of The Massareen Affair that are more than promising—­vigorous and unconventional characters, a gift of lively talk, and so on.  But all this only operates so long as the tale remains in the calm waters of the ordinary; later, when it puts forth upon the sea of melodrama, I am sorry to record that this promising vessel comes as near shipwreck as makes no difference.  To drop metaphor, the group of persons surrounding the unhappily-wedded Anthony Massareen—­Claudia, who attempts to rescue him and his two boys, the boys themselves, and the clerical family whose fortunes are affected by their proximity to the Massareens—­all these are well and credibly drawn.  But when we arrive at the fanatic wife of Anthony, in her Welsh castle, surrounded by rocks and blow-holes, and finally to that last great scene, where (if I followed events accurately) she trusses her ex-husband like a fowl, and trundles him in a wheel-barrow to the pyre of sacrifice, not the best will in the world could keep me convinced or even decorously thrilled.  So I will content myself with repeating my advice to a clever writer in future to ride imagination on the curb, and leave you to endorse this or not as taste suggests.

* * * * *

I am seriously thinking of chaining Grand Fleet Days (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) to my bookcase, for it is written by the author of In the Northern Mists, a book which has destroyed the morality of my friends.  Be assured that I am not formulating any grave charge against the anonymous Chaplain of the Fleet who has provided us with these two delightful volumes; I merely wish to say that nothing can prevent people from purloining the first, and that drastic