I am glad that a Canadian novelist should have given us a book which supports the promise shown by the author in _The Blower of Bubbles_, and marks him out for a distinguished future. If in the course of a novel of action he has something to teach his British readers about the American temperament, and his American public about British mentality, so much the better. BEAVERBROOK. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. LADY DURWENT DECIDES ON A DINNER II. CONCERNING LADY DURWENT'S FAMILY III. ABOUT A TOWN HOUSE IV. PROLOGUE TO A DINNER-PARTY V. THE OLYMPIANS THUNDER VI. A MORNING IN NOVEMBER VII. THE CAFE ROUGE VIII. INTERMEZZO IX. A HOUSE-PARTY AT ROSELAWN X. GATHERING SHADOWS XI. THE RENDING OF THE VEIL XII. THE HONOURABLE MALCOLM DURWENT STARTS ON A JOURNEY XIII. THE MAN OF SOLITUDE XIV. STRANGE CRAFT XV. DICK DURWENT XVI. THE FEMININE TOUCH XVII. MOONLIGHT XVIII. ELISE XIX. EN VOYAGE XX. THE GREAT NEUTRAL XXI. A NIGHT IN JANUARY XXII. THE CHALLENGE XXIII. THE SMUGGLER BREED XXIV. THE SENTENCE XXV. THE FIGHT FOR THE BRIDGE XXVI. THE END OF THE ROAD XXVII. A LIGHT ON THE WATER THE PARTS MEN PLAY. CHAPTER I. LADY DURWENT DECIDES ON A DINNER. I. His Majesty's postmen were delivering mail. Through the gray grime of a November morning that left a taste of rust in the throat, the carriers of letters were bearing their cargo to all the corners of that world which is called London. There were letters from hospitals asking for funds; there were appeals from sick people seeking admission to hospital. There were long, legal letters and little, scented letters lying wonderingly together in the postman's bag. There were notes from tailors to gentlemen begging to remind them; and there were answers from gentlemen to their tailors, in envelopes bearing the crests of Pall Mail clubs, hinting of temporary embarrassment, but mentioning certain prospects that would shortly enable them to . . . . Fat, bulging envelopes, returning manuscripts with editors' regrets, were on their way to poor devils of scribblers living in the altitude of unrecognised genius and a garret. There were cringing, fawning epistles, written with a smirk and sealed with a scowl; some there were couched in a refinement of cruelty that cut like a knife. But, as unconcerned as tramps plying contraband between South America and Mexico, His Majesty's postmen were delivering His Majesty's mail, with never a thought of the play of human emotions lying behind the sealed lips of an envelope. If His Majesty's subjects insisted upon writing to one another, it was obvious that their letters, in some mysterious way become the property of His Majesty, had to be delivered.