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know then that my doctor was his doctor, nor did he know this about the doctor) “I'm so excited. We've just got the most beautiful book in the office. We've been reading it. It's just come in, and it's about Roosevelt. It's the most beautiful book, Harry--it's a lovely book.”

Harry said, “Who's the author?”

He said, “Frances Perkins.”

Harry, of course, promptly tells me.

At any rate, they liked it, and they did a good job by it, producing it, I think. But of course I proved to be a very, very difficult author to handle. No cocktail parties. I wouldn't go to them. I was terrified. They want you to do that, of course. It's publicity. That's promotion. That is promotion of a book, and all publishers want you to do all that. They want you to go to a cocktail party, and they want you to sign autographed copies at Macy's store or some other place. They want to give you a big cocktail party on the day the book comes out. I was beating it for Maine. The book was to be on the streets the next day. I had permitted myself to be interviewed by all the critics who were going to review it. They all wanted to see you. I never had caught on to that. One by one, they wanted to see me.

Not all of them, though. Not everybody wanted to. The