It's the literary agency racket that Richard Mealand takes for a ride in this caricature of a literary agent, a will-o-the-wisp always following the gleam of literary genius just ahead. It resulted in a superficial sort of life,- cocktail parties and literary teas, ""business dates"", contacts with ""important people"", soft soap and palaver ad nauseam. He tries now and then to corner a girl, but can't really take time off to fall seriously in love, and the one glorious being who crossed his path inadvertently fell in love with him- until he lost her to young Peck, for whom he had quite other ideas. It is a twisted, rather crocked path he takes, and the seamy side of the business of making books is exposed for all to see. However, the manner of so doing palls a bit after a while and I found it repetitive and dullish (and to people not in the business I think it would stale even faster). It is bright -- but self-consciously so; and glib and too too clever. But there's a fad for books of its type at the moment -- so it might catch on.