The other evening at a dancing club a young man in a gray suit, soft shirt, loosely tied scarf, shook his tousled yellow hair engagingly, introduced me to a beautiful lady with whom he was dancing and sat down. They were Mr. and Mrs. F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Scott seems to have changed not one whit from the first time I met him at Princeton, when he was an eager undergraduate bent upon becoming a great author. He is still eager. He is still bent upon becoming a great author. He is at work now on a novel which his wife assures me is far better than either This Side of Paradise or The Beautiful and Damned, but like most of our younger novelists he finds it imperative to produce a certain number of short stories to make the wheels go around. That The Vegetable, his play, did not receive a Manhattan presentation seems to have disappointed rather than discouraged him.