There is much more of the substance of wit and truth in Mr. EDEN PHILLPOTTS' "Devon comedy" at the Kingsway. The _St. George_ of the title is not the Cappadocian, but that somewhat irreverent Father in God, _St. George Loftus_, Bishop of Exeter; the dragons are two quite unsuitable suitors for the hands of _Monica_ and _Eva_ (daughters of his dull old friend, _Lord Sampford_), who don't believe in class distinctions. _Monica's_ young man is the son of a yeoman farmer, personable, certainly, on horseback and of a blood older than the _Sampfords'_, but an essential resilient, and altogether impossible when playing the concertina or after mixing his drinks (or both). _Eva's_ follower is a brilliant raw young man from Glasgow, recently ordained, with professional ambitions as pronounced as his accent. The parents try the now exploded method of direct opposition. _St. George's_ weapons are smooth words and a heart chokefull of guile. Does his god-daughter _Monica_ want to elope with her yeoman? By all means let love have his sacred way. But his lordship will contrive in the _rôle_ of a strayed and bogged fisherman to be at Stonelands Farm before the young couple arrive _en route_ for London and the registry-office, and he will see to it that _Monica_ learns what the daily life of a working farmer is like, and what the beer (or bad champagne for festal occasions) and rabbit pie in the kitchen; with sudden frank explanations as to the imminence of the crisis in the interesting condition of _Snowdrop_ the Alderney; what, too, is the Stonelands' notion of music and the dance, with Teddy's braying concertina and cousin Unity's quavering treble and the ragged bass and candid speech of old _Caunter_, the head man.... So much for _Monica_. And _Eva_ thinks she wants to tie herself to this crude Glaswegian. Well, here it will be best to insinuate to the young man how unfortunate it is that the vacant chaplaincy to the Bishop of Exeter is designed for a celibate, and to the young woman that to marry so brilliant (and ingenuous) a youth is to hang a millstone round his neck. For, after all, muses the prelate, revealing dreadful depths of low cunning and perfidy, it's easier to change a chaplain than a husband. A thoroughly amusing affair. Of course Mr. PHILLPOTTS shirks his problem, _Teddy Copplestone_ need not have been a bounder (the odds indeed were against it), nor need his cigars, his champagne or his music have been so bad. But then we should have missed a diverting piece of fun and have been saddled with a solemn problem-play unsuited to the (alleged) gaiety of the hour. The general level of the playing was high, and, after a somewhat nervous opening (and perhaps just a few affectations of the fourth-wall school), the piece swung into a pleasant rhythm.