(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)

The opening paragraph of Mr. JEFFERY FARNOL'S latest novel, The Definite Object (LOW, MARSTON), informs us that in the writing of books two things are essential: to know "when and where to leave off ... and where to begin." Perhaps without churlishness I might add a third, and suggest that it is equally important to know where to make your market. Mr. FARNOL, very wisely, plumps for America; and the new story is a thing of millionaires, crooks, graft and the like. But don't go supposing for one moment that these regrettable surroundings have in the smallest degree impaired the exquisite and waxen bloom of our author's sympathetic characters. Far from it. Of the young and oh-so-good-looking millionaire (weary of pleasures and palaces, too weary even to dismiss his preposterous and farcical butler—lacking, in effect, the definite object); of the heroine's young brother, crook in embryo, but reclaimable by influence of hero; and of the peach-like leading lady herself, I can only say that each is worthy of the rest, and all of a creator who must surely (I like to think) have laughed more than once behind his hand during the progress of their creation. I expect by now that I have as good as told you the plot—young brother caught burgling hero's flat; hero, intrigued by mention of sister, doffing his society trappings, following his captive to crook-land, bashing the wicked inhabitants with his heroic fists, and finally, of course, wedding the sister. So there you are! No, I am wrong. The wedding is not absolute finality, since the heroine (for family pride, she said, because her brother had tried to shoot her husband; but, as this reason is manifestly idiotic, I must suppose her to be acting on a hint from Mr. FARNOL'S publishers) decreed their union to be in name alone. Which provides for the extra chapters.

Have you ever imagined yourself plunged (bodily, not mentally) into the midst of a story by some particular author? If, for example, you could get inside the covers of a Mrs. ALFRED SIDGWICK novel, what would you expect to find? Probably a large and pleasantly impecunious family, with one special daughter who combines great practical sense with rare personal charm. You would certainly not be startled to find her brought into contact with persons of greater social importance than her own; and you would be excusably disappointed if she did not end by securing the most eligible young male in the cast. I feel bound to add that a perusal of Anne Lulworth (METHUEN) has left me with these convictions more firmly established than ever. The Lulworth household, from the twins to the practical mother, is Sidgwickian to its core, though perhaps one can't but regret that the Great Unmasking has for ever robbed them of the society of those fat and seemingly kindly Teutons who used to provide such good contrast. The Lulworths lived at Putney, and never had quite enough money for the varied calls of clothes and education and sausages for breakfast. Then Anne went on a visit to ever such a delightful big house in Cornwall, and there met the only son ... But then came the War and he was reported missing, so Anne stayed on indefinitely with his widowed mother; and the unpleasant next-of-kin (Mrs. SIDGWICK never can wholly resist the temptation of burlesquing her villains) refused to believe that she had ever been engaged to Victor, and indeed went on indulging their low-comedy spleen till the great moment, so long and confidently expected, when—But really I suppose I needn't say what happens then. Sidgwickiana, in short, seasonable at all times, and sufficient for any number of persons.

Mrs. A.M. DIXON began her work in October, 1915, as manager of one of the Cantines des Dames Anglaises established in France under the Ægis of the London Committee of the French Red Cross. She remained until the beginning of July in the following year, and in The Canteeners (MURRAY) she gives an account of her experiences at Troyes, HÉricourt and Le Bourget, where she and her helpers ministered to an almost unceasing stream of tired-out French soldiers. There is something remarkably fresh and attractive about this story. It does not aim at fine writing, but its very simplicity, which is that of letters written to an intimate friend, carries a reader along through a succession of incidents keenly observed and sympathetically noted in the scanty leisure of a very busy life. That she succeeded as she did is a high tribute to her kindness and tact as well as to her organising capacity, I cannot forbear quoting from the letter of a grateful poilu: "DEAR MISS,—I am arrived yesterday very much fatiguated. After 36 o'clocks of train we have made 15 kms. You can think then that has been very dur for us, because in the train we don't sleep many ... We go to tranchÉes six o'clocks a day and all the four days we go the night. I don't see other things to say you for the moment. Don't make attention of my mistakes, please." The book is well illustrated with photographs. I recommend it both on account of its intrinsic merits and because the author's profits are to be given to the London Committee of the French Red Cross.

When a penniless but oh, so ladylike "companion" goes to the Savoy in answer to a "with a view to matrimony" advertisement, what more natural than that the party of the first part should prove to be—not a genteel widower in the haberdashery business, but a handsome super-burglar of immense wealth and all the more refined virtues. True, he burgles, but his manly willingness to reform in order to please the lady shows that his heart was always in the right place, wherever his fingers might be. Then again the actual pillage occurs "off," as they say, and the gentlemanly burglar, while not "occupied in burgling," walks the stage a perfect Sir George Alexander of respectability. Do I hear you, gentle reader, exclaiming, like the Scotsman when he first saw a hippopotamus, "Hoots! There's nae sic a animal!" It is simply your ignorance. The joint authors of This Woman to this Man (METHUEN) have selected him as the hero of their latest novel, so there he is. His combined annexation of the penniless beauty's hand and her titled relatives' objets d'art, her discovery that the splendid fellow she has idolised—it must be admitted, without any indiscreet investigation of his past—is a thief, and their final reconciliation in the rude but honest atmosphere of a New Mexico cattle ranch, are all included in the modest half-crown's worth that C.N. and A.M. WILLIAMSON put forward as their latest effort. And nowadays you can't buy much of anything for half-a-crown.

With commendable idealism Mr. SIDNEY PATERNOSTER considers The Great Gift (LANE) to be Love, and brings a certain seriousness to bear upon his theme. Hugh Standish, ex-newsboy, is at the age of twenty-five partner of an important shipping firm, as well as large holder in a book-selling business, which, in his leisure, he has so successfully run that it is "floated with a capital of £100,000 and over-subscribed" (incidentally rejoice, ye novelists!). At forty-six he is the whole shipping firm and a Cabinet Minister to boot. I would ask Mr. PATERNOSTER if such a man, who has, ex hypothesi, been so busy that he needs the sight of an out-of-work being tended and caressed by his faithful wife in a London Park to suggest to him that there exists such a thing as Love, with a capital L; needs also a later conversation with the same out-of-work to convince him that there is really something the matter with the industrial system (and wouldn't it be a good idea to do something about it now one is a Cabinet Minister?)—I ask Mr. PATERNOSTER, I say, if this is the sort of man to take it all so sweetly when the girl of his choice prefers his cousin and secretary to him? I think not. Our author has woven his story without any reference to the play of circumstance upon his characters. I am afraid he has shirked the difficult labour of artistic plausibility, and I leave it to moralists to decide whether his excellent intentions and sentiments redeem this Æsthetic offence.

Weird o' the Pool (MURRAY) may be described as a subterranean book. I mean that its characters are frequently to be found in secret passages and caves and places unknown to law-abiding citizens. The scenes of this story of incident are laid in Scotland at the beginning of last century, and Mr. ALEXANDER STUART makes things move at such a pace that for a hundred pages or so I could not keep up with him. Then two kind ladies had a conversation, and the confusion which had invaded my mind was suddenly and completely cleared away. The pace after this dispersal is as brisk as ever, but it is quite easy to keep up with it. All the same, I cannot help thinking that Mr. STUART has overcrowded his canvas, and that his tale would be the better for the removal of a few of his plotters and counter-plotters from it. I have never yet said a good word for a synopsis, but I do not mind admitting that I could put up with one here.

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