JEFFERY FARNOL'S latest novel, _The
Definite Object_ (LOW, MARSTON), informs us that in the writing of
books two things are essential: to know "when and where to leave off
... and where to begin." Perhaps without churlishness I might add a
third, and suggest that it is equally important to know where to make
your market. Mr. FARNOL, very wisely, plumps for America; and the new
story is a thing of millionaires, crooks, graft and the like. But
don't go supposing for one moment that these regrettable surroundings
have in the smallest degree impaired the exquisite and waxen bloom of
our author's sympathetic characters. Far from it. Of the young and
oh-so-good-looking millionaire (weary of pleasures and palaces, too
weary even to dismiss his preposterous and farcical butler--lacking,
in effect, the definite object); of the heroine's young brother, crook
in embryo, but reclaimable by influence of hero; and of the peach-like
leading lady herself, I can only say that each is worthy of the rest,
and all of a creator who must surely (I like to think) have laughed
more than once behind his hand during the progress of their creation.
Pages:
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67