TANTALUS. By Dorothy Easton. (Heinemann. 7s. Gd.) Miss Dorothy Easton's
novel has a hurried, breathless air : it reads like a translation from the Scandinavian, and particu- larly like a translation of Hans Andersen. It is a strange
(Continued on next page.) story this account of a clergyman's love-affair with the French governess of his sister-in-law's children ; neither continental nor squalid, at times vividly impressionist, at times tiresomely unconsecutive and obscure, always with a suggestion of mystery and a reserve of emotion. It would be a better book if it disclosed more recognisably and consistently its point of view. It seems to be written through the eyes of a child, a method not without charm, but baffling because of its irresponsibility and its uncertain sense of proportion and direction. Miss Easton aims high, but she draws her bow at a venture, making it hard to tell what her quarry is, and how far her hits are lucky or intentional.
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