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Stillman rushes by the Harvard Club entrance at ten past noon and then stops abruptly, almost as if he were attached to a cord that suddenly ran out of slack. His body displays the club’s dress code in full-blown action – he’s got on a light-pink collared shirt, khakis, and loafers – but he has no intention of going inside. He doesn’t wear the dress code; the dress code is him the way a gray tailored suit with a red bow tie is Pee-wee Herman. Weather and level of establishment be blasted – he’s going to look fiercely ready to enter the Harvard Club even when he’s actually heading toward Dunkin’ Donuts, one of his favorite writing haunts.