Love & Mrs. Sargent by Patrick Dennis Page B

Laughter,’” Dicky read, “’a first novel by Richard Sargent, junior, son of the late correspondent and Pulitzer Prize winner, is one of the most sensitive, penetrating pieces of writing to have reached this reviewer’s desk in many a moon.’ He doesn’t sound very highbrow.”
    “Dicky, get on with it,” Sheila said tensely.
    “ ‘The story concerns an intelligent, well-bred youngster from Chicago’s North Shore and his struggles to find himself in an Eastern preparatory school of the. . .’ “
    “Dicky, I know what the book’s about,” Sheila said. “Get on with the actual criticism. You know, the adjectives.”
    “Okay. Fifteen-year-old Roger Ross. . .’ Blah, blah, blah. ‘Seeking, to find his identity in an alien milieu . . .’ Blah, blah, blah. ‘Homosexual French teacher . . . Blah, blah, blah. Vivid account of a weekend in a seedy Boston hotel. . .’ He certainly doesn’t miss any of the details. In fact he seems to. . . .”
    “Here,” Sheila said, snatching the sheet from him. “Let me. Ah. ‘Deftly and delicately, young Mr. Sargent dissects his char acters, stripping them of every last pretense and conceit. Blessed with a sharp eye for situation and setting, a keen ear for dialogue and dialect, Sargent is that rara avis. . . .”
    “That what?” Malvern said.
    “That’s Latin for Rare Bird, Uncle Howard. Quite the cliché expert this Shelley Sands.”
    “Be still,” Sheila said. “’. . . that rara avis the born writer.’ Well! ‘If Mr. Sargent isn’t the most promising writer of the decade, this reviewer will cheerfully eat all the first first novels of this year.’ “
    “He’s safe there,” Dicky said.
    “Where’s the rest of it?” Sheila said, turning the proof sheet.
    “Was there . . . I mean, is there more?” Malvern asked.
    “Yes,” Dicky said. “Are there any more bromides? Something he’s overlooked?”
    “Well,” Sheila said, her composure somehow deserting her. “That was, I mean I. . . well, it seems so sort of chopped off. You know. It seems to stop in mid-air.”
    “Perhaps it had to be cut in the interests of space, Sheila,” Malvern said pointedly. “Heheheh. Lot of books being published around this time of year, I suppose.”
    “ Yes,” Sheila said darkly. “Perhaps someone did cut it. Ra-ther injudiciously. But anyhow,” she said on a gayer note, “it’s a rave review. Oh, Dicky, aren’t you pleased? Nobody ever gave one of my books a review like that. Here, take it upstairs and show Allison. And I know that Floodie will be thrilled. Oh, and get tidied up for dinner, darling. Remember, we are not alone.”
    “Oh. That magazine reporter. Well, I’d better be very literary.”
    “No, darling, just be yourself. That’s the nicest thing he could possibly hope for. Hurry now.”
    Dicky left the room and Sheila waited silently until she heard his tread on the stairs. “Howard,” she said, “about that review in the Weekend Bookworm, I distinctly remember. . . .” She stopped. Bertha was standing in the doorway. “Yes, Bertha?”
    “This afternoon’s Daily News is here, Mrs. Sargent,” Bertha said, producing the newspaper from under her apron. “I think there’s something maybe you’ll want to see on the book page.”
    “Mr. Dicky’s book?”
    “Yessum.”
    Feverishly Sheila riffled through the pages until she came to the book review. Malvern watched her as she read. He noticed her lips settle into a thin, grim line.
    “Not good, Sheila?”
    “Damn him,” Sheila said. “Of all the brutal, vicious, unfair. . . . Just who the hell does he think he. . . .”
    “He’s considered to be a very distinguished critic, Sheila.”
    “I don’t give a damn what he’s considered to be. Any manwho’ll take a young boy’s first book and. . . .” She ripped thereview out of the paper and put it in her desk drawer. “I’ll deal with this later. It’s something I don’t want Dicky to see. He’s in no frame of mind for this