At the same time, there seemed to be none of the insecurity or vanity that is commonly part of the makeup of intellectuals, no urge simply to score points or put down or claim credit. The wit was funny—very funny—but not vicious, and the gossip was affectionate and tolerant. Irving was, and remains, a kind man: what he does not like he usually prefers to dismiss rather than attack. As it happened, when we met we had both just had articles published in Foreign Affairs, and Irving helped put me at ease by adopting the flattering fiction that the two articles were equally vital contributions to the intellectual life of Manhattan. Shortly after, he invited me to a dinner party at his home at Riverside Drive, and I met Bea. Before the evening was over, an enduring and, to me, greatly valued friendship had begun.