I could see that, if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled.

He was white and shaken, like a dry martini.

The least thing upset him on the links. He missed short putts because of the uproar of the butterflies in the adjoining meadows.

He was a tubby little chap who looked as if he had been poured into his clothes and had forgotten to say 'when!'

Success comes to a writer as a rule, so gradually that it is always something of a shock to him to look back and realize the heights to which he has climbed.

Every author really wants to have letters printed in the papers. Unable to make the grade, he drops down a rung of the ladder and writes novels.