book it should not be “dangerous.”  It is romantic, rather; inspired, you might loosely say.  The Index Expurgatorius will of course list it when they learn of it; but foolishly, because while the philosophy, the cosmology, the metaphysics may be advanced (so advanced as to be called hasty and apt to run into the theological barrages), the religion, the mysticism, the “conviction of sin,” the vision of the invisibles, the perception of the imponderables, are positive, vivid, sincere, passionate in phrasing and in intention.  Sincere as Mr. WELLS is always sincere; sincere rather than stable, patient, learned and so forth.  I rather wonder that he insists so much on his finite God.  The postulate hardly touches his real thesis.  And I find it easier to believe that there may be some things behind “this round world” that Mr. WELLS cannot fully understand because he (the author) is finite—­and busy—­than accept what seems a contradiction in terms to no particular end.

* * * * *

The author of Grand Chain (NISBET) is profoundly aware that man is not the master of his fate (though he may be the captain of his soul, which is quite a different matter), and that the claim so universally put forward, that the leopard can change his spots, is simply an excuse for criticising the superficial pigmentation of other leopards. Dermod Randall, Miss G.B.  STERN’S hero, is certainly not the master of his fate, which is inexorably moulded by the belief of his relatives, ascendant and descendant, that he must inherit the vices of his father, a particularly pard-like specimen, and may be expected at any minute to come out in spots himself.  As a matter of fact his only failings were a young heart and a sense of humour; but, as these qualities were as out of place in the Randall family as a hornpipe at a funeral, Dermod lives under a perpetual cloud of unmerited suspicion.  How he is compressed into a life groove, of which an ineffably turgid respectability provides the chronic atmosphere, is the theme of Grand Chain.  And because the author possesses a wonderfully delicate gift of satire and a power of character delineation that never gets out of hand, she has written a novel deserving of more praise than the usual reviewer, all too timid of superlatives, may venture to give.  Comparisons in criticism are dangerous, but Miss STERN’S philosophy strongly calls to mind BUTLER’S The Way of All Flesh.  At least there is the same mordant and rather hopeless analysis of the power for evil in a too complicated world of impeccable people with no sense of humour.  And in Dermod’s case the effect is heightened by the feeling that if he had really been the irresponsible creature he was suspected of being he would have come much nearer to controlling his own destinies.  He sowed a decent regard for his obligations, and reaped a perfect whirlwind of well-to-do respectability. Grand Chain is a really remarkable novel, and no discriminating reader will overlook it.