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separation of church and state—and literature. While I respect those publishers
     who deal in denominational titles, I am convinced that religious differences, along with nationalism, have been responsible
     for most of the world’s worst calamities and much of its human misery.
    I put in some time at the booth again, listening to a fewcomplaints from booksellers who had received books with defective jackets, or whose credit had been suspended for one reason
     or another, chatting up visitors on the merits of my fall list, and patrolling the corridors myself, to see what the competition
     was up to.
    Then I headed for the autographing tables in the rear of the hall, looking for Herbert Poole.
    I found him busy signing copies of his book fed to him one after another by a young woman from his publishing house and by
     his agent, Kay McIntire. A long line of booksellers had formed in front of the Poole table.
    When I caught Kay Mclntire’s eye, I waved at her. She waved back, and motioned me to move to the side of the room, where she
     joined me shortly afterward.
    “Good morning, Nick,” she said. “I don’t suppose you’re looking for an autograph, are you?”
    I smiled—coyly, I hope. “Only on a contract,” I said.
    “Oh?”
    “I’ve heard that Poole might want to write a mystery. If that is true, I’d like to talk deal with you, Kay.”
    Kay McIntire is one of the most honest and straightforward agents I know, and surely the most attractive. We’ve known each
     other for years, and but for the presence of Margo in my life, I would certainly have thought of her in romantic terms. Once,
     when the three of us were having dinner at The Players, Hartley Reed, the advertising genius and one of my authors, approached
     our table, took Kay’s hand in his, and said: “You’re the most beautiful woman in this room, and I’m dying to know your name.”
    Later, down in the Grill Room of the Club, when I was ordering after-dinner drinks, Reed came up to me and asked—nay, demanded—to
     meet her again. “Arrange alunch for the three of us. Pick any restaurant you like,” he said. “How about La Grenouille?”
    I knew that Hartley was much married—thirty years or more, I figured. “You’re thinking of leaving the reservation, are you?”
     I said.
    “My friend,” he replied in a deep, solemn voice, “I have never been
on
the reservation.”
    The lunch, however, did not take place because—but that’s another story. At the moment, I was thinking of Kay only as an agent.
    “How about it, Kay? Is Mr. Poole ready to jump ship?”
    “You know I wouldn’t encourage an author to leave his publisher for somebody else,” she said, “unless his publisher was somehow
     wrong for him.”
    “But if he wants to write a mystery—”
    “I’m not recommending that, either,” said Kay, considering her words with great care. “I’m not so sure it’s a good idea for
     him to break step quite so sharply. Readers will expect him to follow
Pan at Twilight
with—well,
Pan at Twilight Two,
I suppose.”
    “I’m mistaken in my assumption, then?”
    “Mmm,” she said, “not entirely. But it’s certainly premature to think about a contract, Nick. Much too soon.”
    I looked again at the autographing table. Poole was still signing, smiling frequently, leaning forward to pick up a signee’s
     name, murmuring an occasional comment. He looked younger than I had expected: full head of curly blond hair, a tanned, lean
     face, the kind of author who would photograph or televise well, and who could expect to be regarded as a sex object in his
     own right, leaving aside the kind of books he wrote.
    As I watched, he continued to work the line of autographseekers, most of whom were women—looking as though there was no place in all the world he would rather be than right here,
     scribbling away, risking writer’s cramp to satisfy his loyal fans. One young woman in shorts and a tee-shirt was carrying
     a small baby.