written, but it seems to me that as Mr. Baxter gets to grip with the
realities of his theme, he begins to lose a certain looseness of touch
which marks his opening pages. If so, he is showing the power of
development, and to the artist this power is everything. The writer
who is without it is a mere static consciousness weaving words round
the creatures of his own imagination. The man who has it possesses a
future, because he is open to the teaching of experience. And among
the men with a future I number Mr. Baxter.

Throughout the book his pictures of life are certainly arresting--taken
impartially both in Great Britain and America. What could be better
than some of his descriptions?

The speech of the American diplomat at a private dinner is the truest
defence and explanation of America's delay in coming into the war that
I remember to have read. The scene is set in the high light of
excitement, and the rhetorical phrasing of the speech would do credit
to a famous orator.

But I fear that I may be giving the impression that _The Parts Men
Play_ is merely a piece of propagandist fiction--something from which
the natural man shrinks back with suspicion. Nothing could be farther
from the truth. Mr. Baxter's strength lies in the rapid flow and sweep
of his narrative. His characterisation is clear and firm in outline,
but it is never pursued into those quicksands of minute analysis which
too often impede the stream of good story-telling.

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.