The author combines science and sentiment in a new way. Her facts show that she has read widely; her conclusions show that she has thought deeply; her sentiments show that she has felt—at least potentially—most, if not all, of the joys and sorrows which the practice and malpractice of love produce. And the one shining truth that she has discovered in all this hidden treasure of sex happiness is that “_we’ve a right to as much love as we can work up into the stuff of a superior personality_.” This truth is thrown out as independently of conventions, prejudices, religious beliefs or practices as a searchlight is independent of the hinges that hold it in place. It is the ultimate measure of what is good or what is bad in love; it is the standard by which all sex problems must finally be adjusted. She goes on to say that “taking anything over what we can give back in some form or other to the social sum is my notion of sinning”—and an inspired notion of sinning it is, too. We are all searching for the treasure of love happiness, yet no one may justly take more than he can carry away in inspiration and the impulse of creating something within or without that will add to the sum total of human happiness. Between facts and sentiment Mrs. Austin leans to sentiment—yet why not? She is not writing for the elect body of sex students, but for ordinary men and women. Those who have read little or nothing of sex psychology would find cold, uncompromising facts too difficult a diet. Offering them such an argument would be like comforting a bumped child with the multiplication table. By means of such a book as _Love and the Soul Maker_ it may be possible for even the ossifying brains of dogmatists to catch a glimmer of light on our present sex problems, while such dazzlingly and ruthlessly true books as Havelock Ellis writes may petrify several additional lobes. Although not openly propagandic, Mrs. Austin has a decided philosophy of life which she sets forth in a dozen different ways and which, without saying so, she hopes her reader will accept. She insists that “the proper end of loving is not personal but racial; it is the Soul Maker’s most precious commodity,” and that love pirates or love grafters commit their most venal sin by believing that love is its own excuse. As Mrs. Austin expresses it, “Love for love’s sake is the shibboleth by which they blunt the unassailable fact that love was not invented for love’s sake but for life’s.” Here, of course, is a radical point of departure which will turn many readers away from her pages; it may, however, induce an equal number to read further.