The situations, though of a rather strenuous order, gave occasion from time to time for humorous relief. At first, when the English servant in the opening Act rudely interposed with a facetious comment on the sincerity of the grief of certain mourners, I feared lest the humour was going to be distributed loosely without regard to the propriety of its mouthpiece. But the rest was reasonable enough; and my only complaint about the best repartee ("There's no place like home." "Some people are glad there isn't") has to do with its antiquity rather than with its appropriateness. I have never been to Manitoba (and, after seeing _The Land of Promise_, I am definitely resolved, as I said, never to go), so I cannot say whether Mr. MAUGHAM'S interiors corresponded to the facts; but their freedom from any signs of picturesqueness gave them an air of being the right thing. Life in these parts no doubt revolves largely round the simple joys of the stomach. Seldom have I seen so much eating on the stage. We began at Tunbridge Wells with a funeral tea (though perhaps I ought to pass this over as taking place outside the Dominion); then as soon as we get to Dyer (Manitoba) we had a mid-day dinner, with washing-up; and then at Prentice (Manitoba) we were regaled with a supper of black tea and syrup. I am confident that there is a great opening for drama dealing solely with Life Between Meals. To see people smoking on the stage is sufficiently irritating; but, when you are assisting at a First Night after a sketchy repast from the grill, all this feeding on the stage, however frugal the menu, makes for exasperation. Finally I must compliment Mr. MAUGHAM on his ironical title. For his play, too, is a thing "of promise" rather than achievement, if it is to be judged by the test of the Last Act. Still, if a play only promises well enough and long enough--as this play did--that is an achievement in itself. O. S. * * * * * THE TORTOISESHELL CAT. THE tortoiseshell cat She sits on the mat, As gay as a sunflower she; In orange and black you see her blink, And her waistcoat's white, and her nose is pink, And her eyes are green of the sea. But all is vanity, all the way; Twilight's coming and close of day, And every cat in the twilight's grey, Every possible cat. The tortoiseshell cat She is smooth and fat, And we call her Josephine, Because she weareth upon her back This coat of colours, this raven black, This red of the tangerine. But all is vanity, all the way; Twilight follows the brightest day, And every cat in the twilight's grey, Every possible cat. * * * * * The Thrusters.