Unsavory artists, titled boobs, and charlatans with an affinity for Freud—such are the oddballs whose antics animate the early novels of the late British master Anthony Powell. A genius of social satire delivered with a very dry wit, Powell builds his comedies on the foibles of British high society between the wars, delving into subjects as various as psychoanalysis, the film industry, publishing, and (of course) sex. More explorations of relationships and vanity than plot-driven narratives, these slim novels reveal the early stirrings of the unequaled style, ear for dialogue, and eye for irony that would reach their caustic peak in Powell’s epic A Dance to the Music of Time . In Agents and Patients , we return to London with the newly wealthy, memorably named Blore-Smith: an innocent, decent enough chap . . . and a drip. Vulnerable to the machinations of those with less money and more lust, Blore-Smith falls victim to two con artists whose ploys carry him through to the art galleries and whorehouses of Paris, Berlin, and beyond. Written from a vantage point both high and necessarily narrow, Powell’s early novels nevertheless deal in the universal themes that would become a substantial part of his oeuvre: pride, greed, and what makes people behave as they do. Filled with eccentric characters and piercing insights, Powell’s work is achingly hilarious, human, and true. “A master of irony . . . a writer of social comedy as revelatory as any written by Evelyn Waugh or Henry Green.” -- Leo Lerman ― New York Times “Elegantly casual and scandalously funny.” -- Charles Poore ― New York Times “Looking back at Powell’s earlier novels, it is possible to see him discovering there how to use his razor-sharp satirical sense until it is purged of bitterness and extravagance.” -- Elizabeth Janeway ― New York Times “Anthony Powell is our foremost comic writer.” -- V. S. Pritchett Anthony Powell  (1905-2000) was one of the most critically acclaimed novelists of the twentieth century. His landmark twelve-volume novel, A Dance to the Music of Time,  was named to the Modern Library's list of the top 100 novels of the twentieth century. His other novels include  Afternoon Men ,  Venusberg ,  From a View to a Death ,  Agents and Patients ,  What's Become of Waring? ,  O, How the Wheel Becomes It! , and  The Fisher King , all published by the University of Chicago Press. A condensed version of his four-volume memoir,  To Keep the Ball Rolling , is also available from the University of Chicago Press. Agents and Patients A Novel By Anthony Powell The University of Chicago Press Copyright © 1936 Anthony Powell All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-0-226-13735-3 CHAPTER 1 CHIPCHASE, judging it prudent, from an increasingly set expression on Maltravers's face, to bring the story of his emotional life to an end, said: 'I don't pretend that my love affairs are not sordid. They are. They always have been. I like sordid affairs. What I object to is the assumption that just because one's love affairs are sordid it doesn't matter whether or not they go wrong.' Maltravers said: 'Naturally, naturally. It's far worse. People who have unsordid love affairs have extraneous things to fall back on. Sordid love affairs have to be their own reward.' After he had said that Maltravers leant forward in the direction of his coffee, stiffly, because his movements were circumscribed by the heavy overcoat he had not removed in spite of the comparative heat of the room. He said: 'The handicaps that I myself have had to contend with in life have been enormous. Simply enormous. But I have come through. I am at one with myself. For example, I don't want money any longer.' They sat in a high narrow room crowded with chairs and small tables where men and a few women came to drink coffee in sober surroundings. A pleated red curtain, set a foot or two back from the plate glass and rising to half the height of the window, gave the exterior of this coffee-room the appearance of a tailor's shop. The uncurtained window at the back of the room looked out on to a whitewashed wall, so close that even on fine days the place was in twilight. When there was a fog about, the inside, only brightened by the reflections of the gas fire on the metal of the massive funereal urns in which the chicory stewed, was like a cave; and the linoleum floor a vein of grey-pink rock, some volcanic substratum. The time was nearly half-past three in the afternoon and Maltravers and Chipchase had the room to themselves. When Maltravers talked like this Chipchase knew that he was hard up. Chipchase had suspected this during lunch and now he felt sure of it. Both of them were post-war types, already perhaps a little dated. This was more immediately apparent in the case of Chipchase, whose emaciated physique and severe expression gave some indication of his historical background. He was an art critic by profession and an amateur of psycho-analysis. Maltravers, who was ta