By this time, the hosts were urging the author and his admirers downstairs to dinner and to a discussion of his novel. "That punch was rather strong," he admitted, walking through the dining room. "Oh--you put your silverware in your pockets; that is clever."

He made no comment about the central kitchen, but instead withdrew three manuscripts from his large, dog-eared briefcase and gazed fondly at them. Marquand writes his novels by dictating to his secretary--"It spurs you to write quickly since you're paying her by the hour. It takes a while to learn not to write self-consciously this way."

He put on his glasses. "I am going to read the first and part of the second chapter of my novel--it hasn't got a name yet--and then I'd like you to discuss it. This novel, I hope, will present a picture of various dilemmas of the artistic mind." He began reading. His low, somewhat hoarse voice uttered each word as though he were a father examining a newborn child, and when he had finished, he looked up expectantly.

"Well," said his host, "I think you spent too much time describing Walter Price." (A practiced liar who went to Groton and Yale). "It seems as though he is your main character."

The author looked up resignedly. "No, several people, whose judgment I respect very highly, have told me that." He snapped his fingers. "I guess I'm just going to have to cut pages out of that section, that's all there is to it."

Other criticism was offered, and the author listened attentively, somewhat sadly, as his amateur listeners ran through his newest work, which he had already rewritten twice. Finally, his host looked at his watch, and thanked Marquand for the reading. Everyone shook his hand, and hung back guiltily to utter a few words of praise before they left him.

He smiled, and walked out. "I did like that rose garden," he mused.