NIBBLES FROM NEW BOOKS.

Digger (Invercargill RSA), Issue 19, 23 July 1920, Page 15

NIBBLES FROM NEW BOOKS.

She was good-looking enough to upset any man. — "Panther," by R. A. FosterMelliar. "Well spoken, my lord," Mr Betterton rejoined, pleasantly. "But you must remember that but few of His Majesty's servants have a line of glorious ancestry behind them. In that way they differ from many GentLemen who, having nothing but their Ancestry to boastof, are very like a Turnip — the best of them i3 under the ground." — "His Majesty's Vv'ellBeloved,'' by Baroness Orozy. Where love is concemed, nobody can tell what may happen — "The Gods Decide," by Richard Bagot. Married lif.e is a wonderful system of give and take ; but until you get married you never know which is to give and which is to ta-ke. If a- woman likes a man a little, it is his own fault if he cannot make her like him a lot. Women generally, it would seem, derive much happiness from their faculty of living in the moment. They possess this faculty in a much higher degree than men. They do not think that they might he elsewhere, differently employed in other company half their time, as men do. Even in moments of pleasure men are inclined to look forwards or backwards. That phrase, "How ha-ppy I was then, if I had only known it," is used ten times by men for once hy women. A woman knows when she is happy, and if at such times she speaks of the future, it is nearly always in recognition of the present fact — "Let us do this again some time. Bring me back here one day. We shall never have a greater treat than this." — "A Man and His Lesson," by W. B. Maxwell. "That's a.lways the way, I suppose," said The Freak — "turn a cold shoulder on a man, and he wants to kiss it." — "The Girl in Love," by Charles Service. Gerald was not dangerous! It is the man who applies himself to one woman at a time who is to be watched. — -"His Secretary," by Bernard Gilbert. "What weird people you know, Billy ! Where on earth do you pick them up? There's Eaith Morris, for instance. A sausage, dressed by Paquin." — "Diana Falls in Love," by Maria Albanesi. As a good hostess, Lady Stone.borough made a hurried tour through the rooms before her guests arrived. . . "I hope Tom won't. make any mistakes," she said. "Dickie call's us 'Ma and Faux Pas;' I'm sure I trust he won't say it broadcast." — "The Dean," by Lady Charnwood. "It's a rea! good institntion, this British institution oi hanging out your boots," said Tony. "It's like nailing your colours to the mast. When I go along the corridor of an hotel, and see outside a door a large pair of man's boots, and next to it a dainty pair of girl's boots, I always get a peeuliar kind of thrill. I feel I want to tap on the door and cull out, 'Say, are you cornfy?' " — "The Qucrrils," hy Stacy Aumonier. For Gracie was not interested in practicai love — that is the stark statement of an astonishing fact. But it must not therefore be surmised that she was one of those phenomenal creatures — common enough in Ireland, where they are esteem. ed the chief glory of the exclusively religious culture of the country — who preserve into womaDhood a chaste ignorance of what. are euphemislically termed the material facts of life. Gracie's mind was not innocent in this way ; it is a pity to explode a pleasant legend, but the minds of convent-schoolgirls rarely are. I have never felt much real enmity towards poor benighted sects of Ghristianity, whether Anglicanism, or Lutheranism, or Methodism. or Presbyterian, even. But 1 dread tlie Devil. He is the enemy not only of Holy Church, but of all mankind. He is overlooked these days, for he has taken to himself a disguise that cheats the best of us. We are out hunting or taJl gentleman in red tights, with a father in his cap, and cloven feet, and a forked tail protruding throngh a slit in his nether garments. That's a mistake, and we are more likely to discern him in Machinery, or Militarism, or Capitalism, or Art Faith. I think it is as an artist the Devil is now roaming the world with his attendant imps! — "A Pair of Idols," by Stewart Cavan.