Because I have a warm regard for good short stories and heartily approve the growing fashion of publishing or republishing them in volume form, I am the more jealous that the good repute of this practice should be preserved from damage by association with unworthy material.  I’m afraid this is a somewhat ominous introduction to a notice of The Eve of Pascua (HEINEMANN), in which, to be brutally frank, I found little justification for even such longevity as modern paper conditions permit.  “RICHARD DEHAN” is admittedly a writer who has deserved well of the public, but none of the tales in this collection will do anything to add to the debt.  The best is perhaps a very short and quite happily told little jest called “An Impression,” about the emotions of a peasant model on seeing herself as interpreted by an Impressionist painter.  There is also a sufficiently picturesque piece of Wardour Street medievalism in “The Tribute of the Kiss,” and some original scenery in “The Mother of Turquoise.”  But beyond this (though I searched diligently) nothing; indeed worse, since more than one of the remaining tales, notably “Wanted, a King” and “The End of the Cotillion,” are so preposterous that their inclusion here can only be attributed to the most cynical indifference.

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It may be my Saxon prejudice, but, though most of the ingredients of Irish Stew (SKEFFINGTON) are in fact Irish, and though Mrs. DOROTHEA CONYERS is best known as a novelist who delights in traditional Ireland and traditional horses, I am bound to confess that I enjoyed the adventures of Mr. Jones, trusted employe of Mosenthals and Co., better than Mrs. CONYERS’ stage Irishmen.  “Our Mr. Jones” is neither a Sherlock Holmes nor an Aristide Pujol, neither a Father Brown nor a Bob Pretty, but nevertheless he is an engaging soul and we could do with more of him.  Mrs. CONYERS’ hunting clientele may much prefer to read about the dishonesties of Con Cassidy and his fellow-horse-copers and the simple but heroic O’Toole and his supernatural friends.  But, as the average Irish hunting man cares little more for books than he does for bill-collectors, his preference may not be of paramount importance.  In any case the Irish ingredients of Irish Stew would be easier to assimilate if Mrs. CONYERS would refrain from trying to spell English as the Irish speak it.  If the reader knows Ireland it is unnecessary and merely makes reading a task.  If the reader does not know Ireland no amount of phonetic spelling will reproduce a single one of the multitudinous brogues that fill Erin with sound and empty it of sense.  On the whole Mrs. CONYERS’ public will not be disappointed with her latest sheaf of tales.  But it is Mr. Jones who will give them their money’s worth.

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