the full status of an Ally all by himself.  He adds out of the abundance of his heart a diary and novel by Knatschke’s daughter, Elsa, full of the artless sentimentality of the German virgin.  It is even better fun than the Professor’s part of the business.  Naturally the full flavour of both jokes must be missed by the outsider.  HANSI is the more effective in that he chuckles quietly, never guffaws and never rails.  Fun of the best.

* * * * *

There is not much left for me to say in praise of Mr. JACK LONDON’S dog-stories; and anyhow, if his name on the cover of Jerry of the Islands (MILLS AND BOON) is not enough, no persuasion of mine will induce you to read it.  Those of us to whom dogs are merely animals—­just that—­will find this history of an Irish terrier dull enough; but others who have in their time given their “heart to a dog to tear” will recognise and joyously welcome Mr. LONDON’S sympathetic understanding of his hero. Jerry’s adventurous life as here told was spent in the Solomon Islands, which is not, I gather, the most civilized part of the globe.  He had been brought up to dislike niggers, and when he disliked anyone he did not hesitate to show his feelings and his teeth.  So it is possible that for some tastes he left his marks a little too frequently; but in the end he thoroughly justified his inclination to indulge in what looked like unprovoked attacks upon bare legs.  For unless he had kept his teeth in by constant practice he might never have contrived to save his beloved master and mistress from a very cowardly and crafty attack.  Good dog, Jerry!

* * * * *

I admit that the fact of its publishers having branded The Road to Understanding (CONSTABLE) as “A Pure Love Story” did not increase the hopes with which I opened it.  Let me however hasten also to admit that half of it certainly bettered expectation.  That was the first half, in which Burke Denby, the heir to (dollar) millions, romantically defied his father and married his aunt’s nursery governess, and immediately started to live the reverse of happy-ever after.  All this, the contrast between ideals in a mansion and love in a jerry-built villa, and the thousand ways in which Mrs. Denby got upon her husband’s nerves and generally blighted his existence, are told with an excellently human and sympathetic understanding, upon which I make my cordial congratulations to Miss ELEANOR H. PORTER.  But because the book, however human, belongs, after all, to the category of “Best Sellers” it appears to have been found needful to furbish up this excellent matter with an incredible ending.  That Mrs. Denby should retire with her infant to Europe, in order to educate herself to her husband’s level, I did not mind.  This thing has been done before now even in real life.  But that, on returning after the lapse of years, she should introduce the now grown-up daughter, unrecognised, as secretary to her father!  “Somehow ... you remind me strangely....  Tell me of your parents.”  “My daddy ...  I never knew him.”  Or words to that effect.  It is all there, spoiling a tale that deserved better.