THE HILL OF DREAMS
rave about the Honourable Mrs. Scudamore Runnymede's last novel, A Bad Un to Beat. He says all the Smart Set are talking of it, and it seems the police have to regulate the crowd at Mudie's. You know I read everything Mrs. Runnymede writes, so I sent out Miggs directly to beg, borrow or steal a copy, and I confess I burnt the midnight oil before I laid it down. Now, mind you get it, you will find it so awfully chic.' Nearly all the novelists on Messrs. Beit's list were ladies, their works all ran to three volumes, and all of them pleased the Press, the Review, and Miranda of Smart Society. One of these books, Millicent's Marriage, by Sarah Pocklington Sanders, was pronounced fit to lie on the schoolroom table, on the drawing-room bookshelf, or beneath the pillow of the most gently nurtured of our daughters. 'This,' the reviewer went on, 'is high praise, especially in these days when we are deafened by the loudvoiced clamour of self-styled "artists." We would warn the young men who prate so persistently of style and literature, construction and prose harmonies, that we believe the English reading public will have none of them. Harmless amusement, a gentle flow of domestic interest, a faith-
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