_The Woman in the Bazaar_ (CASSELL), by Mrs. PERRIN, is a story of the Anglo-Indian life in which she always moves at ease. It is _Captain George Coventry's_ first wife, the golden-haired and "phenomenally" (as the newspaper-men will go on saying) innocent _Rafella_ of the high-perched Cotswold vicarage, who eventually finds her deplorable way down to the Bazaar. If _George_ (that beastly prig) at the psychological moment of their first serious quarrel, instead of threatening and laughing like a drunken man and reeling back into the room, had reeled forward and gone into the matter quietly, the entirely virtuous, if idiotic, _Rafella_ would not have flown into the practised arms of that unscrupulous barrister, _Kennard_, who, as everybody knew, had left a mournful trail of dishonoured wives all over India, his legal knowledge presumably saving him at once from the inconvenience of marrying his victims and from the physical violence of outraged Anglo-Indian chivalry. And when _George_, now a colonel and on the verge of a quarrel with the second _Mrs. Coventry_ about a young ass of a _tertium quid_, caught sight of poor _Rafella_ at a window in the Bazaar, he was so genuinely upset that he rushed back to his wife, forgave her (nothing in particular) and lived happily ever after. Which, of course, is just one of those things that thrusts the avenging hatchet into the hand of the Militant. * * * I suppose that the "culture" (using this word in the strictly English sense) of Streatham Hill may perhaps be a trifle thinner than that of certain other suburbs, and, keeping this well in mind, I must try to believe that _Candytuft--I mean Veronica_ (HUTCHINSON) is meant for romantic comedy and is not a one-Act farce hastily expanded by its author into three-hundred-page fiction form. The plot turns on a not very serious marital estrangement. _C. I. M. V._ (she had called herself _Veronica_ suddenly one day after reading RUSKIN) decided that she must have an intellectual companion and (rather daringly) that he must be of the male sex. So her husband's best friend dressed himself up as a fantastic and extremely repulsive-looking poet with a red wig and padded waistcoat and indulged in fantastic rhodomantades in order to disillusionise her. Well enough on the knock-about stage, of course. But, if I am to treat _C. I. M. V._ from the mildly satiric standpoint, which I fancy that MABEL BARNES-GRUNDY would prefer me to adopt, _Mr. Shakespeare Waddilove_ is rather a big mouthful to swallow, even if I can accommodate my throat to the supposition that the lady would have allowed her husband to choose her Platonic friend for her and promise beforehand to give him a two months' trial. She did come from Streatham, I know, before she went to live in the country; but still the trams run all the way from Streatham to Charing Cross--and that padded waistcoat! However there are some amusing passages in _Candytuft--I mean Veronica_,