_Bab, a Sub-Deb_, with its account of the doings of a girl who has not yet “come out,” a sub-débutante, is also unique and, to the extent of the character’s capacity, just as diverting. Mrs. Rinehart does nothing by halves, she exploits the possibilities of her people to the top of their bents--and hers. She exploits--always legitimately--her own affairs, as in _My Creed_, the autobiographical article in the _American Magazine_ upon which we have drawn so heavily in this sketch, and _The Altar of Freedom_, an account of her struggle to part with a son who felt he must answer America’s call for men in 1917. With gusto she gives us the account of a vacation trip--see _Through Glacier Park_ or _Tenting To-Night_. With the heaviest possible charge of sentiment but never an explosive cap of sentimentality, she puts before us a small boy, the crown prince of a mythical but completely real kingdom, whose pitifully circumscribed existence, whose scrapes and friendships and admiration of Abraham Lincoln, have for their background court intrigues and the uncovering of treason; read _Long Live the King!_ With complete self-knowledge comes complete knowledge of others; Mrs. Rinehart can go straight to the American heart and does it in _The Amazing Interlude_, that story of Sara Lee Kennedy, who went from a Pennsylvania city to the Belgian front to make soup for the soldiers. Here is romance so heady and strong that most readers overlook, purposely and gladly, the improbability of Henri’s return to Sara Lee and the little house of mercy after daybreak discovered him, delirious and in a Belgian uniform, dangling on the German wire. Artistically _The Amazing Interlude_ excels by its portrait of Harvey, Sara Lee’s fiancé back home, Harvey who resisted her “call” to service, who brought her back home, whose hard selfishness as an American and whose lack of comprehension as a man make him entirely typical of thousands in this country prior to April 6, 1917. The novel _K._--or story _K._, if we accept Mrs. Rinehart’s disclaimer as to novel writing--is possibly more representative of her work than any other single book. It illustrates perfectly her ingenuity in contriving and handling a plot; for the book ends on page 410 and the most necessary revelation does not come until page 407. It exemplifies her finished gift for telling a story; there are no wasted words and in half a page she can transport you from laughter to tenderness. Half a page? On page 70 you may see it done in seven lines. The girl Sidney Page has slipped from a rock into the river, alighting on her feet and standing neck deep. Rescued by K. Le Moyne, she remarks: “‘There wasn’t any danger, really, unless--unless the river had risen.... I dare say I shall have to be washed and ironed.’