Despite the continuing knots of rain, Rosette and I went last night to the White Elephant to hear Frank Conroy play piano. This he does with the lean skill of those black thirties' soloists but not (so far as I hear) with much personal necessity. Like his book, Stop Time, Conroy's musicality is undeniably affable: it holds your interest even when nothing is happening, which is most of the time. But is lacks the fever of art. His intelligence, his neuroses, his acute sensitivity are all quite predictably normal.