were out of place in an article that obviously ought to be called "The
Last Swallow"; so I cut them out, sent "The Last Swallow: A Reverie" to
another Editor, and began again. The third time I was successful.

Of course in my review I said all the usual things. I said that Mr.
Blank's attitude to life was "subjective rather than objective" ... and
a little lower down that it was "objective rather than subjective." I
pointed out that in his treatment of the major theme he was a
neo-romanticist, but I suggested that, on the other hand, he had nothing
to learn from the Russians--or the Russians had nothing to learn from
him; I forget which. And finally I said (and this is the cause of the
whole trouble) that Antoine Vaurelle's world-famous classic--and I looked
it up in the encyclopedia--world-renowned classic, "Je Comprends Tout,"
had been not without its influence on Mr. Blank. It was a good review,
and the editor was pleased about it.

A few days later Mr. Blank wrote to say that, curiously enough, he had
never read "Je Comprends Tout." It didn't seem to me very curious,
because I had never read it either, but I thought it rather odd of him to
confess as much to a stranger. The only book of Vaurelle's which I had
read was "Consolatrice," in an English translation. However, one doesn't
say these things in a review.

Now I have a French friend, Henri, one of those annoying Frenchmen who
talk English much better than I do, and Henri, for some extraordinary
reason, had seen my review. He has to live in London now, but his heart
is in Paris; and I imagine that every word of his beloved language which
appears, however casually, in an English paper mysteriously catches his
eye and brings the scent and sounds of the boulevards to him across the
coffee-cups. So, the next time I met him, he shook me warmly by the hand,