It is a pity that publishers and too friendly critics write in an extravagance of praise, especially when writing about fiction, for surely works of genius do not appear at the rate of half a dozen a month? Take Miss Westmacott's book [Giant's Bread], for example, which is one of the most loudly heralded. One advertisement states that its fluency and facility are so great that it is incredible that it can be a first novel. This is true enough, but it is cause for apprehension rather than hope. The fluency and facility which Miss Westmacott shows, particularly in the opening third of her novel, suggest not so much the born novelist as the born novel-reader with a gift for easy imitation; the childhood of Vernon Deyre and the various friends and relatives who surround him are described with rapid competence, but no better than in fifty other novels which concern themselves with the trials of young genius growing up. There is nothing particularly real about Vernon or any part of his career …, and the easy flow of the narrative makes one fear that Miss Westmacott could turn out, two a year, a dozen more novels of the kind.

This, however, is not all the truth, and our hopes for the author are roused by finding that in her own book she has provided the contrast. Even in the first part there are some touches, such as the gentleman who uttered the magic word "Brummagem," which are fresh and charming; and when Miss Westmacott reaches the world of music, which she really knows, her book suddenly comes alive and vivifies her characters with it. Jane, the singer, is a live and withal a charming personality, and in her presence the rather pallid and inadequate figure of Vernon's wife takes on for a while a real existence. The chapters in which Jane appears are worth the rest of the book put together, and make one wish to encourage Miss Westmacott to go on writing—but to prune her gift for imitating what half a hundred other authors can do. (p. 151)