He had given Mrs. Tarrant a rough outline of Loot, and had been troubled, for a moment, by her hesitation, her reluctance to express an opinion. She thought the subject too big for him—was that it? No, not too big … she had confidence in his range … and she agreed with Frenside that he must above all not attempt another Instead. That had been a radiant accident; it would be disastrous to try to repeat it. When he murmured: "Pondicherry," and spoke of the vision the word evoked, she shook her head, and said: "The publishers would jump at it; but take care!" No, Frenside was right; he must try his hand now at reality, the reality that lay about him. For the novelist, fantasy was a sterile bloom, after all. Only (she wondered) was he sufficiently familiar with the kind of life he was going to describe? Vance laughed and said that Frenside had put the same question. He ought to go out more, Frenside said, rub up against New York in its various phases, especially the social ones—oh, none of your damned documentation, that corpse-dissecting, as Frenside called it—Vance must just let himself live, go about among people, let the place and the people work themselves into his pores… . Excellent advice, but not so easy, when a fellow …

Here she interrupted him, leaning forward with her drawn-up scrutinizing gaze. "Vance, what is it? What's wrong? Why do you persist in burying yourself instead of taking advantage of your success?"

"Well, I guess it's because I'm not used to society, for one thing… ."

"Don't think of it as 'society,' but just as a few friendly people who admire your work and want to know you… . Come here and see them," she urged; and when he confessed that he had no evening clothes she laughed, and asked if he supposed she meant to invite him to formal entertainments, and if he didn't know that Frenside never could be coaxed out on tailcoat occasions? Later, she added, when Vance had got more used to it all, he must go to some of the big shows too—the opera, musical parties, millionaire dinners, the whole stupid round—just to see how "the other half lived"; but meanwhile all she suggested was that he should not cut himself off from the small group of the cultivated and intelligent, who might stimulate him and enlarge his point of view—not, at least, she added, if he meant to go on writing novels… .

Of course he agreed with her; of course he said he would come on whatever evening she named. The mere sound of her voice made the creative ardour beat in him, and when she asked him if he couldn't soon bring her his first chapter he answered joyfully that she should have it before the end of the week… .