It occurred to Peggy Stone that Bill Holloway was an interesting young man. He was at least twenty-four or five, old enough to know better and young enough to do something about it. He was a fresh gust of air, a new face on the sitting-duck horizon of her life.
"Do you know John Hanley at the University?"
"We're friends," Bill said. "Together, shoulder to shoulder, we wage our unsung war against the legions of conformity. Sure, John and I collaborated on an article last month."
"Your views coincide with his in a remarkable way."
"Nothing remarkable. Writers and critics just don't mix, any more than oil and water. We're misunderstood, they're underrated. It's a tough life."
"You made a remark about seeing at least one Stone. Don't you ever see Dr. Stone?"
"He's a busy man, I'm sure."
