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Oct. 26" -- '24 -- Saturday
Dear Grace and Elizabeth B: --
One might say justly that the "season" has begun here. At least this last week convinced me of it as much as I'll ever care to be. Everybody's getting back to N. Y. from summer vacations, trips abroad and were-not; the new plays are starting up everywhere; orchestras and divas turning up plays are turning up -- and [?] one holds on to his head mightily -- it's liable to take [amplity?] flight and hear you some kind of applauding machine, handshaking automaton or what not.
I saw Zell on Tuesday, after writing you. Pacing around her room at the Waldorf, folding night gowns, hanging coats, fuming about passports and packages which had failed to be delivered, Zell looked tired, and we didn't have much of a meeting. I nearly sank into mortification when she informed me casually that she was not even going near Spain [underlined] and had not intended to [?] the [outact?] of her plans. How did you ever get so bawled up on her plans as I write me [about that?] as you did? I finally explained the joke of my [verses?] to her on that score, as I thought she would enjoy them all the better, maybe, when she found them in her stateroom.
Helen stayed over with Dorothea until this evening. They had me out to dinner Thursday evening, and last evening both of them called on me here. Allan Gordon brought them over. Helen went quite as wild as anyone when she saw the view. She said she would tell you about her "approval" when she sees you. Saturday afternoon after work I had coffee with Josephson and Burton Rascoe, a celebrated critic (though a bad egg), lunched today with Gotham and Edwin Seaver, editor of "1924" magazine, and later had tea as Stewartt Mitchell's guest at the Brevont. Monday night I'm invited out to theatre and dinner by Waldo Frank -- and so you see why it's evident that the "season" has begun. As usual I'm spending as much
