here's a definite New Yorker style, especially so in articles, profiles or reviews, and a lady who has the whole thing down to a this Lillian Ross. In this collection from that magazine she is intelligent but not intellectual, wry more than witty, a little tough, a trifle sentimental, more than a mite shrewd. She catalogues cosmopolitan commonplaces with anatomical accuracy; when she uses dialogue- that is when she quotes from real life- she is unerringly right; she has perfect taste the taste being in not lingering over anything too long or too deeply; she is never showy, just a bit nasty. She is also a great follower and in her reportage here she follows the Miss America tiddlywinks, a high school group visiting , the Junior League Ball, the making of a Hollywood film- the latter, the longest item in the book, is just about the truest, funniest, saddest danse macabre of art and commercialism on record. Miss Ross is also celebrated for visiting celebrities: the three on view here are jeweler Harry Winston, Brooklyn-born matador idney Franklin and the late Ernest Hemingway. Miss Ross contends that her famous atchet-job on Papa was never meant to be one, but what she contends and what it till reads like are two different things. Tops.