2. A recognition of the unmarried mother and the refusal to boycott a whole class, produce detailed and frank pictures of "gay life," in which the pleasures and even the moral conquests are so brought into prominence as to convey the totally false impression that such conditions are freer, and therefore better, than prosaic domesticity. 3. The gospel of self-expression in emotion, itself a fine ideal inspiring sincerity, is too often so violently proclaimed as to ignore any consideration for others and the "consequences" to oneself:—the inevitable weakening of the will. 4. In particular, the glorification of burning passion which (as a physical fact) cannot be continuous, is revealed to justify the lie that, as the _nature_ of love changes or grows, it also turns cold and dies. Therefore, they seek to show that the noblest love does not last, that men and women alike need constant change in emotion, that marriage is not a bond but bondage. Everywhere, they confound the abuses of truth with truth itself; proclaim an ideal false simply because it has been degraded and misunderstood. They condemn because we cannot attain. Obviously, however, the novelists may still reply, "We are concerned with life not with ideals. If these things be sin, we must write of sin." That we all admit. The novel with any ambition towards truth dare not ignore temptation or the failure to resist. It must reveal human nature, no less at its worst than its best; face the struggle between faith and disloyalty to oneself; picture life's cruel ironies and the tyranny of fate. _But that can never excuse doubt, or confusion between right and wrong, exalting evil, or perversion of the truth._ V THE "SPADE" IDEAL IN FICTION This has been summarized once for all in his description of what Mr. W. L. George calls a "sincere" novel: "There would be as many scenes in the bedroom as in the drawing-room, probably more, given that human beings spend more time in the former than the latter apartment." There is nothing sincere in that definition except its nasty flavour; the lust it suggests. The actual effect, if not the intention, is a quick shock to our natural instincts. Any possible value it might appear to possess at first sight, as a serious argument, has been lost by the insincere reason given. Mr. George himself is far too good an artist not to know that _real_ life is _not_ measured by length of hours. Crises are, nearly always, swift. Too often, a character is lost or won in a moment; we grow old in a night; gain the happiness of a lifetime by the right word. How many a man is bound to "spend more time" over his ledger than beside his lady!