Like most of the women in society, she is sick of gadding around tea parties. This stuff may be all right in F. Scott Fitzgerald flapper novels, but gets wearisome in real life. Speaking of F. Scott Fitzgerald, I understand that Princeton University is so vexed with this youthful prodigy that he discreetly omits the usual dutiful visits to his alma mater. What’s ailing Princeton is Mr. Fitzgerald’s book, “This Side of Paradise,” in which he told some painful truths about college life. I couldn’t see anything so terrible about it; but Princeton was touchy. In fact, I don’t see how anybody could “stay mad” at this child of genius. He is really a charming boy. He looks about seventeen, with those he-vamp blue eyes. I understand that “This Side of Paradise” was practically his own life, except that he really married the young society flapper who “trun him down” in the book. She is a very beautiful girl and the boy genius is obviously crazy about her. Another “best seller” who is looking at the tall buildings of New York is Harold Bell Wright, the sales of whose books have now amounted to something over 9,000,000 copies. The first time I ever saw the illustrious Harold was in Chicago, where he had come to sell his first books. He was a green little country preacher from a “riding” circuit in the Ozark mountains in Arkansas. He was so green that a sure-thing man would have been ashamed to sell him gold bricks. He looked pained when you spoke of writing for money; he said he only wrote to give a message to the world. I saw him again at the Waldorf the other day. He has made a couple of million dollars; got a divorce and a Rolls-Royce and other modern equipment. In spite of his enormous success as a best seller, I am told that Harold has a canker eating at his heart. He grieves because the literary critics will not take his work seriously, but “kid” him as a “he” Laura Jean Libbey. The other day, New York was electrified by a story that Hearst had quarreled with Marion Davies and that that attractive young lady was to cease to be a film star in the Hearst studios. But if there was a row, Marion must have won the bout. She is not only still the queen at the studio at One Hundred and Twenty-fifth street, but her brother-in-law has just been placed in supreme command. I am told that everything is getting on with peace and harmony—the kind of peace and harmony where nobody dares to be the first to leave a group and always walks out of the room sideways with his back to the wall.