Amongst the thousands of helpful suggestions for the conduct of war which have recently filled the columns of the daily press, I do not remember having seen any scheme for supplying the officers of the Allied Armies with an Irish terrier apiece. And yet if MARIE VON VORST is to be trusted, this is a very serious omission, for, had it not been for _Pitchoune_, I fear that the gallant hero of _His Love Story_ (MILLS AND BOON) would have perished in the Sahara and never have won the lady of his heart. The _Comte de Sabron_ was forbidden by his military orders to take a dog with him to Algiers, but _Pitchoune_ ran all the way from Tarascon to Marseilles and jumped into the boat. Subsequently, when his master was lying wounded in the desert, he tracked down the nearest native village--twelve hours away--and barked till they sent out a relief expedition. A boy scout could not do more, and, though my own experience of Irish terriers has led me to think that they do not spend over much time in the study of ordnance maps, yet for sentiment's sake, and because _His Love Story_ is a charmingly written romance, I am ready to believe in all the feats of _Pitchoune_, and even to hope that he will not after all be _de trop_ now that _M. le Comte_ is happily wedded, but may have another brilliantly successful campaign in front of him. * * * * * Although Mrs. PENROSE'S new novel, _Something Impossible_ (MILLS AND BOON), gaily admits in its title its difficulties, I cannot pretend that I consider her to have made the most of her opportunity. There are at least two classic examples of her theme, Mr. ANSTEY'S _Vice Versa_ and Mr. DE LA MARE'S _Return_. Mrs. PENROSE cannot approach either the charming humour of the one or the delicate beauty of the other. On a lower plane her story has its amusing moments, and there is a vein of real tenderness in her picture of the relations of her hero and his faithful lady--a happy relief after the monotonous repetition of matrimonial infidelities dealt out to us by the average novel. It will be a consolation also to many readers to discover that plain people are far more popular than handsome ones and that to "have features of classical beauty" is the most unfortunate of handicaps in the race for comfort and success. Mrs. PENROSE, like many other women novelists, is very cruel to her own sex and never misses an opportunity of exposing its shallow sentiments and transient affections. But why are all novelists of to-day so merciless to the provincial town? There must be some pleasant people in Cathedral cities. I am weary of retired colonels with port-stained faces, and vinegary old maids, and unctuous canons. Mrs. PENROSE has shown in her earlier books so real a sense of beauty and so touching a spirit of kindliness that I am bound to confess that, with the exception of her treatment of her hero, this rather acid and ironical piece of nonsense is a disappointment.