Anyhow, we folded it up and posted it, and we've heard
nothing since.
R.C.L.
* * * * *
[Illustration: ECHOES OF THE AIR-RAIDS.
_First Souvenir-hunter_. "FOUND ANYFINK, 'ERB?"
_Second ditto_. "NO; BUT THAT'LL BE ALL RIGHT. THEY'RE SURE TO COME
AGAIN TERMORRER NIGHT."]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(_BY MR. PUNCH'S STAFF OF LEARNED CLERKS._)
Not for a great while have I met a story at once so moving and so
simply made as _Summer_ (MACMILLAN). Of course at this time the art
of EDITH WHARTON is no new discovery; but to my thinking she has never
done better work than this tale of a New England village, and the
wakening to love of the girl who was drowsing away her youth there.
It is all, as I say, so simple, and written with such apparent economy
of effort, that only afterwards does the amazing cleverness of Mrs.
WHARTON'S method impress itself upon the reader. _Charity Royall_ was
a waif, of worse than ambiguous parentage, brought up in a community
where her passionate and violently sensitive nature was stifled. Two
men loved her--dour middle-aged Lawyer _Royall_, whose house she kept,
and _Lucius Harney_, the young visitor from the city, the fairy-prince
of poor _Charity's_ one great romance, through whom came tragedy.
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