First off, though, I don't believe I have actually explained what the plot is about before now. Therefore, I shall share with you what I've got in the way of a basic logline right now: In 1930s New York City, a young aspiring writer must prevent his fiancée's eccentric family from being immortalized in novel form by his own literary hero.
Lloyd slammed the glass door of the newsroom and tossed his hat at a rack. It had taken him more than a year of working on the Eclipse to get up the nerve to slam the glass door the way the older reporters did, and it was still a source of amazement to him that it had not shivered to pieces in the first month of its existence.
"Well, firstly, he was okay when I left yesterday afternoon. Secondly, he didn't leave any notes for me with Doris. And thirdly—"
"You're forming some bad habits with adverbs," observed Randy.
"—he hasn't been out to yell at me yet," finished Lloyd. "So my chances to rile him between noon yesterday and this morning have been conspicuous by their absence."
"I'm told Grandmother is the one I've got to impress."
"Pick up her knitting, pet the cat?"
"Circumnavigating the globe or capturing an armada or two would stand me in better stead, I believe."
"Oh, she's old-fashioned," said Randy.
The door swung slowly open, and a tall man with black eyebrows and the posture of a grenadier looked down a Roman nose. A butler—undoubtedly a butler. Lloyd had dealt with butlers before, but always with a pencil and notepad in hand. How was a mere guest supposed to act? In novels they were always "admitted by the butler." That made it sound like it was the butler's move.
Hubert, whose ideas of entertaining were conservative, sat down again, and talked desultorily for ten minutes or so about what the weather was supposed to be doing, and what the stock market was supposed to be doing; it seemed neither of them were doing it.