Miss Marguerite Bryant, the author of Felicity Crofton (Heinemann), can thank the gods for two gifts which lift any novel of hers well above the ruck of fiction. One is a sense of style (let me beg her not to play careless pranks with it); the other such a knowledge of men as is vouchsafed to very few contemporary women-novelists. You will have to go far and get very tired before you find a more lovable heroine than Felicity. Even after you have begun to suspect that the bearing of her own and other people's burdens had grown to be a hobby with her, you never lose faith in her delightfully vivid and radiant personality. The danger of drawing so fascinating a character is that when she is off the stage one's attention is apt to wander to the wings; but Miss Bryant, though she cannot quite defeat this peril, has hot been overwhelmed by it. With one exception the minor parts in her story are excellently handled, and in the end I have to be grateful for more refreshment than I have gleaned for many a day.
WOMEN IN WAR-TIME.
Wherever he has wandered of late, Mr. Punch has been struck by the sight of a new and capable type of citizen, always in some responsible position and always alert and efficient.
He has found her, in various incarnations, everywhere. If he goes by the railway she sells him his ticket. When he passes through the gate she clips his ticket. When he leaves the station she collects his ticket.
When he goes by Tube she takes him down in the lift and up in it again. If he boards a tram or an omnibus it is she, this new citizen, in a trim businesslike uniform, who collects his fare.
At his club she brings him his lunch. At many a restaurant she handles plates once sacred to Fritz and Karl.