ke personally? Arnold Bennett, in an article which
appeared in the Book News Monthly and which was reprinted in a booklet,
says: "About the time of the publication of _The Gods and Mr. Perrin_, I
made the acquaintance of Mr. Walpole and found a man of youthful
appearance, rather dark, with a spacious forehead, a very highly
sensitised nervous organisation, and that reassuring matter-of-factness of
demeanour which one usually does find in an expert. He was then busy at
his task of seeing life in London. He seems to give about one-third of the
year to the tasting of all the heterogeneous sensations which London can
provide for the connoisseur and two-thirds to the exercise of his vocation
in some withdrawn spot in Cornwall that nobody save a postman or so, and
Mr. Walpole, has ever beheld. During one month it is impossible to 'go
out' in London without meeting Mr. Walpole--and then for a long period he
is a mere legend of dinner tables. He returns to the dinner tables with a
novel complete."

In the same magazine, in an article reprinted in the same booklet, Mrs.
Belloc Lowndes, that excellent weaver of mystery stories and sister of
Hilaire Belloc, said: "Before all things Hugh Walpole is an optimist, with
a great love for and a great belief in human nature. His outlook is
essentially sane, essentially normal. He has had his reverses and
difficulties, living in lodgings in remote Chelsea, depending entirely
upon his own efforts. Tall and strongly built, clean-shaven, with a wide,
high forehead and kindly sympathetic expression, the author of _Fortitude_
has a refreshing boyishness and zest for enjoyment which are pleasant to
his close friends. London, the home of his adoption, Cornwall, the home of
his youth, have each an equal spell for him and he divides his year
roughly into two parts: the tiny fishing town of Polperro, Cornwall, and
the pleasure of friendships in London. 'What a wonderful day!' he was
heard to say, his voice sounding muffled through the thickest variety of a
pea-soup fog. 'It wouldn't really be London without an occasional day like
this! I'm off to tramp the city.' It is one of Hugh Walpole's
superstitions that he should always begin his novels on Christmas Eve. He
has always done so, and he believes it brings him luck. Often it means the
exercise of no small measure of self-control, for the story has matured in
his mind and he is aching to commence it. But he vigorously adheres to his
custom, and by t