Egotism was her greatest fault; she looked upon it as her highest virtue. Her thought came back to Tommy. No man had ever been so much in love with her as he was. And he represented so many desirable things. He was appealingly good looking. He was wealthy in his own right, Carl had told her. Life with him would be tranquil and luxurious.... It might grow dull. * * * * * She heard him on the walk. She stood there, frozen, as he came up the steps. He rang the bell, and in that instant decision came. The maid was coming through to open the door. Millicent snatched the sealed letter from her desk, and handed it to her. “Give this to Mr. Squire,” she said, and while the maid gazed stupidly at her, she laughed, half hysterically, and ran up the stairs. In her room she heard Tommy come in, heard the murmur of the maid’s voice, and then, after a pause longer than she had ever endured, she heard the door close upon him. She waited until she could not hear his footsteps longer--then she walked over to the mirror, and rubbed out the heart. C. G. POORE. _Book Reviews_ _Jean Huguenot._ By STEPHEN VINCENT BENÉT. (Henry Holt.) Flowers in writing are like flowers on a grave: they commemorate death. And Benét’s first novel was a little too prone to floral decoration. In his third book, _Jean Huguenot_, his work as a stylist is noticeably improved. He still remains all poet in his prose, and, as ever, reads the better for it. Yet he has reached a saner manner of writing that does not overwhelm and cloy as did parts of _The Beginning of Wisdom_. Despite mechanical improvement _Jean Huguenot_ marks a lull in the author’s literary progress. You are moved along for two hundred or so pages by glowing language and well-drawn situations. And just when the book has become really enjoyable--well, all pleasure in it begins to subside. You are dropped, like a deflated balloon, into a flat and tasteless completion. Why, oh, why, you say, couldn’t he have given us something else--anything else? The spectacle of Jean Huguenot Ashley turned _cocotte_ is neither appealing nor revolting; it is just plain drab. Perhaps Benét is true to nature in his picture, but--read it and see if it doesn’t affect you in the same fashion. The story is worth while for three-quarters of its course--and then, being so near the end, one might as well finish it, anyway. J. R. C. _The Florentine Dagger._ By BEN HECHT. (Boni & Liveright.)