The worst fate, they utterly agreed, would be to become like Mother and Dad, stuffy and frightened. Not one of them, if she could help it, was going to marry a broker or a banker or a coldfish corporation lawyer, like so many of Mother’s generation. They would rather be wildly poor and live on salmon wiggle than be forced to marry one of those dull purplish young men of their own set, with a seat on the Exchange and bloodshot eyes, interested only in squash and cockfighting and drinking at the Racquet Club with his cronies, Yale or Princeton ’29. It would be better, yes, they were not afraid to say it, though Mother gently laughed, to marry a Jew if you loved him—some of them were awfully interesting and cultivated, though terribly ambitious and inclined to stick together, as you saw very well at Vassar: if you knew them you had to know their friends. [...]

Great wealth was a frightful handicap; it insulated you from living. The depression, whatever else you could say about it, had been a truly wonderful thing for the propertied classes; it had waked a lot of them up to the things that really counted. There wasn’t a family Priss knew that wasn’t happier and saner for having to scale down its expenditures; sacrifices had drawn the members together. Look at Polly Andrews’ family: Mr. Andrews had been in Riggs Clinic when the depression hit and all his investments went blotto; whereupon, instead of sinking deeper into melancholia and being put into a state hospital (grim thought!), he had come home and made himself useful as the family cook. He did every bit of the cooking and the marketing and served the most scrumptious meals, having learned about haute cuisine when they had their chateau in France; Mrs. Andrews did the scullery work and the vacuuming; everybody made his own bed; and the children, when they were home, washed up. They were the gayest family to visit, on the little farm they had managed to save near Stockbridge; Lakey went there last Thanksgiving and never had a better time—she only wished, she said, that her father would lose his money, like Mr. Andrews. She meant it quite seriously. Of course, it made a difference that the Andrews had always been rather highbrow; they had inner resources to fall back on.

Last night, he had explained technocracy to Dottie, to show her there was nothing to fear from the future, if it was managed with scientific intelligence. In an economy of plenty and leisure, which the machine had already made feasible, everybody would only have to work a few hours a day. It was through such an economy that his class, the class of artists and technicians, would come naturally to the top; the homage people paid to money today would be paid in the future to the engineers and contrivers of leisure-time activities. More leisure meant more time for art and culture. Dottie wanted to know what would happen to the capitalists (her father was in the import business), and Kay looked inquiringly at Harald. “Capital will blend into government,” said Harald. “After a brief struggle. That’s what we’re witnessing now. The administrator, who’s just a big-scale technician, will replace the big capitalist in industry. Individual ownership is becoming obsolete; the administrators are running the show.” “Take Robert Moses,” put in Kay. “He’s transforming the whole face of New York with his wonderful new parkways and playgrounds.” And she urged Dottie to go to Jones Beach, which was an inspiring example, she really felt this herself, of planning on a large scale for leisure. [...]

[...] "Dottie," she said firmly, "it's cruel and wicked to marry a man you only half love. Especially an older man. It's a kind of cheating. I've seen it happen among my own friends. YOu promise the man something that you can't give. As long as that other man remains in the back of your mind. Like a hidden card up your sleeve." [...]

[...] "You don't mind if I take this?" she queried, showing her the menu and pointing to her briefcase. The hostess of course was delighted: all the world loves a writer, Libby had found. The old French waiters at the Lafayette Cafe had got so they gave her a regular table when she dropped in, toute seule, on Sunday afternoons, to read or take notes at the marble-topped table and watch the odd characters playing checkers or reading the newspapers, which were rolled up on wooden poles the way they were in France.

[...] "No, Gus, listen. I think you should go back to Esther. Or I think I think you should." What she meant, she supposed, was that he would be doing the right thing, for him, but that she wished he were different. A better man or a worse one. A few minutes ago, she had suddenly realized a fact that explained everything: Gus was ordinary. That was what was the matter with him.

[...] she still felt their love affair had not quite finished: it lived somewhere underground, between them, growing in the dark as people's hair and fingernails grew after their death. She was sure she would meet him again somewhere, some day. This presentiment too was tainted with dread.

[...] "He's a Trotskyite," she whispered. "What's that ?" he said. "Oh, don't be so ignorant!" cried Polly. "Trotsky. Leon Trotsky. One of the makers of the Russian Revolution. Commander of the Red Army. Stalin's arch-enemy. In exile in Mexico." "I've heard of him, sure," said Jim Ridgeley. "Didn't he use to be a pants-presser in Brooklyn?" "No!" cried Polly. "That's a legend!" A great gulf had opened up between her and this young man, and she felt she was screaming across it. In fairness, she tried to remember that a year ago she too had probably thought Trotsky had pressed pants in Brooklyn [...]