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“Oh, there’s our host and hostess,” Jean said. “Let me introduce you.” I was anxious to meet this couple described by Jean as “self-made, salt-of-the-earth millionaires.”

She was right. Despite their glamorous looks, Robert and Olivia Morgan turned out to be nothing like Jay and Daisy. For one thing, Olivia’s voice was not “full of money.” It was filled instead with curiosity and intelligence and the rhythms of a native Australian. Robert was more difficult to read. Clearly he was a hard-driving man with a razor-sharp mind. But there were hints also of a thoughtful, poetic nature when he discussed with Jean a book by William Trevor that they both were reading.

A butler appeared to announce that dinner was served. Jean and I walked behind the host and hostess into a large dining room, where five round tables, each seating eight people, were set with sparkling crystal and gleaming silver. The whole room was lit by candles that flickered from the movement of the guests entering. I consulted the card I’d been handed. I was to sit at Table Number 5. “My table, too,” Jean whispered.

Two guests were already at the table when Jean and I sat down. She introduced me to her friend Edward, a psychoanalyst, and to Georgia, a ruthlessly fashionable woman who bore a striking resemblance to the late Diana Vreeland, the famous fashion editor. Arriving next was a young, attractive couple from Australia. “He’s in business with Robert,” Jean whispered, leaning across the empty seat between us. Finally, I was pleased to see the host and hostess take their places at our table.

Almost immediately Georgia asked if anyone had read the piece in the Herald-Tribune quoting John Updike on Ernest Hemingway. “He delivered an absolutely delicious line,” she said. “Updike pointed out that living wasn’t what Hemingway did best, that we should remember him as a writer.” She laughed. “Quite the put-down, isn’t it?”

Edward, the analyst, weighed in with his opinion. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Maybe it wasn’t a negative judgment but simply a statement of fact. Hemingway’s life was rather a mess, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but that’s not the point,” Robert said. “Who’s to say that Hemingway wouldn’t prefer to be remembered for his writing and not for what he did when he wasn’t writing?”

Edward laughed. “Bob, you’re starting to sound more like an analyst every day.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to be remembered for the way I live,” Georgia said wryly. “I want to be remembered for the way I dress.” Everyone laughed.

“Well done,” said Olivia, standing with her wineglass raised to make a toast. “And may none of us forget that dressing well is the best revenge.”

“I don’t think it’s funny,” Jean said suddenly and loudly. “Hemingway was a depressed man. He killed himself. Remember? Just like his father. Is that funny?” Her speech was noticeably slurred.

An awkward silence followed her outburst. It was hard to know what to say. I couldn’t help but think of all the depressed men in Jean’s life, including her own father. Finally, Robert came to the rescue, changing the subject to a play just opening in London. I saw Jean shoot him a grateful look.

The waiters appeared and began to serve the food. It was just before eleven and, despite my earlier dinner, I was ravenous. As soon as I saw my hostess lift her fork, I dug in.

At the end of the evening Georgia suggested we move the party—at least the one at our table—over to her place in Chelsea.

“Smashing idea,” said Jean, whipping out a mirror to add a fresh coat of red lipstick, one that only approximated the actual shape of her mouth. Everyone agreed it was a capital idea and we began preparing ourselves for the short journey to Chelsea. Outside, I looked at my watch; it was a little before two.

It was just before dawn when we left Georgia’s apartment. A few minutes later, when I stepped out of Robert and Olivia’s car to enter my building, Jean leaned out of the window to call after me: “Don’t forget. Lunch at one. At the Connaught.” She looked exhausted but also wired. Did I look like that, I wondered?