There be beavers which have made themselves beavers for the kingdom of heaven’s sake. But there are some beavers, on the other hand, which were so born from their mother’s womb.” He burst into a fit of outrageous laughter which stopped as suddenly and as voluntarily as it had begun. Lypiatt shook his head. “Hideous,” he said, “hideous.” “Moreover,” Coleman went on, without paying any attention, “I have other and, alas! less holy reasons for this change of face. It enables one to make such delightful acquaintances in the street. You hear some one saying, ‘Beaver,’ as you pass, and you immediately have the right to rush up and get into conversation. I owe to this dear symbol,” and he caressed the golden beard tenderly with the palm of his hand, “the most admirably dangerous relations.” “Magnificent,” said Gumbril, drinking his own health. “I shall stop shaving at once.” Shearwater looked round the table with raised eyebrows and a wrinkled forehead. “This conversation is rather beyond me,” he said gravely. Under the formidable moustache, under the thick, tufted eyebrows, the mouth was small and ingenuous, the mild grey eyes full of an almost childish inquiry. “What does the word ‘beaver’ signify in this context? You don’t refer, I suppose, to the rodent, _Castor fiber_?” “But this is a very great man,” said Coleman, raising his bowler. “Tell me who he is?” “Our friend Shearwater,” said Gumbril, “the physiologist.” Coleman bowed. “Physiological Shearwater,” he said. “Accept my homage. To one who doesn’t know what a beaver is, I resign all my claims to superiority. There’s nothing else but beavers in all the papers. Tell me, do you never read the _Daily Express_?” “No.” “Nor the _Daily Mail_?” Shearwater shook his head. “Nor the _Mirror_? nor the _Sketch_? nor the _Graphic_? nor even (for I was forgetting that physiologists must surely have Liberal opinions)—even the _Daily News_?” Shearwater continued to shake his large spherical head. “Nor any of the evening papers?” “No.” Coleman once more lifted his hat. “O eloquent, just and mighty Death!” he exclaimed, and replaced it on his head. “You never read any papers at all—not even our friend Mercaptan’s delicious little middles in the weeklies? How is your delicious little middle, by the way?” Coleman turned to Mr. Mercaptan and with the point of his huge stick gave him a little prod in the stomach. “_Ça marche—les tripes_? Hein?” He turned back to Shearwater. “Not even those?” he asked. “Never,” said Shearwater. “I have more serious things to think about than newspapers.” “And what serious thing, may I ask?” “Well, at the present moment,” said Shearwater, “I am chiefly preoccupied with the kidneys.”