I've been in New York since I met you at that orgy on Long Island, and here I run into you directly.
Mary smiled. Are you complaining? she inquired.
Ignoring this query, he lifted her hand. I was sure of it, he cried. You have fingers like the petals of a golden chrysanthemum. I've always remembered your fingers.
Mary felt too embarrassed to invent a reply.
Gareth Johns was still sitting near Mary. Apparently, Mr. Kasson, you have a talent for phrases, he commented. I hear that you are a writer.
Not quite yet, Byron responded. I want to write, but it's a large order, isn't it? It's difficult to begin when one realizes what you have accomplished.
So you've been reading my books.
Everybody reads your books, Mr. Johns.
Well, don't let that bother you. The critics and the public always like the new men best. They get tired of us old fellows, once they have discovered the secret of our formulas. What are you going to write about?
I don't know, Mr. Johns, that's just it. How does one go about writing?
Well, to be frank, I've always thought that the best way to go about writing was to write. You have plenty to write about. Gareth swept his eyes around the room.
