I confess I am disappointed with ANTHONY HOPE'S _The God in the Car_. Some of the dialogue is in his very best "Dolly" comedy-vein. The last interview between hero and heroine is admirably written. But it is not "in it" with his most originally conceived story of _The Prisoner of Zenda_. The title requires explanation, and you don't get the explanation until the climax, which explanation is as unsatisfactory as the title. "The hazy finish is," quoth the Baron, "to my thinking, artistic." "What becomes of the lady? what becomes of the lover?" are questions the regular romance-reader will put. And the reply is evidently the old one, on which no improvement is possible, "Whatever you please my little dear, you pays your money and you takes your choice." But it is well worth reading, and our friend "the Skipper," who "knows the ropes," will find there are some, though not very frequent, opportunities for his mental gymnastic exercise. THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS. * * * * * AN EPICURE TO HIS LOVE. My Queen, Mayonnaise! Oh, give ear to thy lover-- Oh, pity his passion, my sweet Mayonnaise! Just one glance from those eyes which (like eggs of the plover!) Can kill--(or be cooked)--in a hundred of ways! When first I beheld thee my thoughts flew unbidden To dishes I'd eaten--so fair to the eye. That I've looked and I've looked till the flavour they've hidden Was forgot at the sight of the dish, or the pie. [Illustration] Oh, grant that our loves, like _potage à la crême_, Flow gently and smoothly along through the days. (To me it's the same, for though MABEL'S thy name, To me thou art ever my sweet "Mayonnaise.") White as snow are thy teeth that, like _riz à l'Anglaise_, Shine forth between lips red as _sauce écrevisse_; And the truffle-like beauty-spot nestles and says, "Come and kiss next the dimple and taste, dear, of bliss!" _Dinde de Bresse_ is not plumper nor fairer than thee; And thy gown and its trimmings thy beauties enhance. None so sweet in the country of Gruyère and Brie, Where St. Sauce counts for more than St. Louis of France. Nay, turn not your head. Never blush _portugaise_, Be tender as _chaufroid_ of veal _à la reine_-- (A dish for the gods!--not what Englishmen praise, Indigestible veal _qui ne "veau" pas la_ pain!) Hot as _sauce rémoulade_ though thy temper may be-- Though caprice gall thy thoughts till thy brain's _panaché_-- I'll love thee and love thee--I swear it by THEE!-- The roast thou shalt rule, by night and by day! My Queen, Mayonnaise, oh give ear to my prayer! Be my love--be my wife! Come, Mayonnaise dear, And to Paris we'll fly, and at BIGNON'S we'll fare, And the evening we'll spend at the _Menus_-Plaisirs!