fix a few elemental facts which he has
neglected and then will let him have his say.

Frank Arthur Swinnerton was born in Wood Green, England, in 1884, the
youngest son of Charles Swinnerton and Rose Cottam. He married, a few
years ago, Helen Dircks, a poet; her slim little book of verse,
_Passenger_, was published with a preface by Mr. Swinnerton. His first
three novels Swinnerton destroyed. His first novel to be published was
_The Merry Heart_. It is interesting to know that Floyd Dell was the first
American to appreciate Swinnerton. I make way for Mr. Bennett, who says:

"One day perhaps eight or nine years ago I received a novel entitled _The
Casement_. The book was accompanied by a short, rather curt note from the
author, Frank Swinnerton, politely indicating that if I cared to read it
he would be glad, and implying that if I didn't care to read it, he should
endeavour still to survive. I would quote the letter but I cannot find
it--no doubt for the reason that all my correspondence is carefully filed
on the most modern filing system. I did not read _The Casement_ for a long
time. Why should I consecrate three irrecoverable hours or so to the work
of a man as to whom I had no credentials? Why should I thus introduce
foreign matter into the delicate cogwheels of my programme of reading?
However, after a delay of weeks, heaven in its deep wisdom inspired me
with a caprice to pick up the volume.

"I had read, without fatigue but on the other hand without passionate
eagerness, about a hundred pages before the thought occurred suddenly to
me: 'I do not remember having yet come across one single ready-made phrase
in this story.' Such was my first definable thought concerning Frank
Swinnerton. I hate ready-made phrases, which in my view--and in that of
Schopenhauer--are the sure mark of a mediocre writer. I began to be
interested. I soon said to myself: 'This fellow has a distinguished
style.' I then perceived that the character-drawing was both subtle and
original, the atmosphere delicious, and the movement of the tale very
original, too. The novel stirred me--not by its powerfulness, for it did
not set out to be powerful--but by its individuality and distinction. I
thereupon wrote to Frank Swinnerton. I forget entirely what I said. But I
know that I decided that I must meet him.

"When I came to London, considerably later, I took measures to meet him,
at the Authors' Club. He proved to be young; I daresay twenty-four