_My Face is My Fortune_, by Messrs. PHILIPS and FENDALL. Why don't
they agree to spell both names with an "F," and make it FILLIPS and
FENDALL. I fancy that FENDALL couldn't do without the sensational
fillips. This story excites curiosity throughout the first volume,
and then, in the other volume, satisfies it in so disappointing and
commonplace a fashion as to suggest the idea that one of the authors,
becoming weary of his share in the work, suddenly chucked it up,
and said, "Oh, bother! let's finish anyhow;" and then the other
_collaborateur_, whichever it was, did finish it as best and as
quickly as he could. There is evidence of laziness or of lack of
invention in the story. If it were for the first time in fiction that
a secret is learnt by some one hiding behind some pantomime plants
in a conservatory, then too much praise could not be bestowed on the
ingenious devisers of so strong and original a situation. But as "we
know that situation,--he comes from Sheffield," and as it has done
duty some scores of times before, on or off the stage, why, the
thoroughgoing novel-reader shakes his head and asks, "Couldn't they
have devised something better than this between them?" "I expected
much from this combination in Authorship, and am disappointed," says
the candid BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.
* * * * *
[Illustration: WHAT OUR ARTIST (THE NEWLY-MARRIED ONE)
HAS TO PUT UP WITH.
_Our Artist_. "JUST LOOK, DARLING! I WAS SHORT OF CANVASSES, SO I'VE
STRETCHED A CLEAN POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF!--SEE HOW SPLENDIDLY IT TAKES
THE PAINT!"
_His Prudent Little Wife._. "OH, JOHN DEAR, HOW EXTRAVAGANT OF YOU!
_IT'LL NEVER COME OUT!_"]
* * * * *