_Beatrice Lovelace_ belonged to a family that had come down in the world, and were now Reduced County. So far reduced, indeed, that _Beatrice_ lived with her cross aunt _Anastasia_ and one little maid-of-all-work in a tiny house in a very dull suburb, where the aunt would not allow her to be friends with the neighbours. However, one fine day two things happened. _Beatrice_ got to know the young man next door, and the little servant (whose name, by a silly coincidence which vexed me, happened to be _Million_) was left a million dollars. So, as the house was already uncomfortable by reason of a row about the young man, _Beatrice_ determined to shake the suburban dust from her shapely feet and take service as maid to her ex-domestic. That is why the story of it is called _Miss Million's Maid_ (HUTCHINSON). An excellent story, too, told with great verve by Mrs. OLIVER ONIONS. I could never attempt to detail the complicated adventures to which their fantastic situation exposes _Beatrice_ and _Million_. Of course they have each a lover; indeed, the supply of suitors is soon in excess of the demand. Also there is an apparent abduction of the heiress (which turns out to be no abduction at all, but a very pleasant and kindly episode, which I won't spoil for you), and a complicated affair of a stolen ruby that brings both heroines into the dock. It is all great fun and as unreal as a fairy-tale. For which reason may I suggest that it was an error to date it 1914? Such nonsensical and dream-like imaginings are so happily out of key with the world-tragedy that its introduction strikes a note of discord. * * * * * I have just finished reading a distinguished book, _One of Our Grandmothers_ (CHAPMAN AND HALL), by ETHEL COLBURN MAYNE--a book full of a delicate insight and very shrewd characterisation. It probes to the heart of the mystery of girlhood--Irish girlhood in this case. I certainly think that _Millicent_, who was a sort of prig, yet splendidly alive, with her gift of music (which, contrary to custom in these matters, the author makes you really believe in), her temperament, her temper and her limitless demands on life, would have given young _Maryon_, of the Royal Irish Constabulary, a trying time of it; but it would have been worth it. That, by the way, was _Jerry's_ opinion, common, horsey, true-hearted, clean-minded little _Jerry_, who was the father of _Millicent's_ coarse and something cruel stepmother. I have rarely read a more fragrant chapter than that in which this queer, sensitive, loyal little man tries to cut away the girl's ignorance while healing the hurt that a rougher hand (a woman's), making the same attempt, had caused. Perhaps Miss _Mayne_ was really trying to trace to its source the stream of modern feminism. She is a rare explorer and cartographer. * * * * *