I find that I have been discussing Mr. Bennett’s play instead of the general question into which I proposed to inquire—the treatment of love by our dramatists of to-day. It looks, I fear, like the familiar device of a reviewer for running away from his subject—“unfortunately, our space will not permit, &c.”—always very useful when the subject is getting ticklish. But the fact that I have had to dwell on Mr. Bennett’s case rather shows how rare that case is with us. The general treatment of love on our stage is, it seems to me, inadequate. Either it is a mere _ficelle_, an expedient for a plot, or it is apt to be conventional, second-hand, unobserved. We want fresh, patient, and fearless studies of it on our stage. I am not asking for calculated “audacity” or salacity (there has never been any dearth of that), but for veracity. Though the subject is the oldest in the world, it is always becoming new. There are subtleties, fine shades, in our modern love that cannot have been known to the Victorians; yet most of our stage-love to-day remains placidly Victorian. Was it Rochefoucauld or Chamfort who spoke of the many people who would never fall in love if they hadn’t heard it talked about? But think how we of to-day have all heard it talked about, what books we have read about it! The old passion has put on a new consciousness, and calls for a new stage-treatment. Where is our Donnay or our Porto-Riche? They, perhaps, pursue their inquiries a little farther than would suit our British delicacy; but our playwrights might at least take a leaf out of their book in the matter of veracity, instead of mechanically repeating the old commonplaces. H. B. IRVING