Rosemary Fell wasn’t beautiful. No—you wouldn’t have called her beautiful. Pretty? Well, if you break it down piece by piece… But it’s terribly cruel to dissect a person. She was young, witty, incredibly modern, impeccably dressed, and startlingly well-informed about all the newest books. And at her evenings, wonderfully diverse company gathered: on one side, truly influential people; on the other, the bohemian crowd—strange creatures, her “finds.” Some of them were simply nightmarish, while others were perfectly decent and even amusing.