GEORGE SELDES: Duff Twysden used to boast that she was the bitch "Lady Brett" in the The Sun Also Rises.
HAROLD LOEB: Duff tried to pretend she didn't much mind his picture of her, but I heard from others that she minded a bit. She was quite something. Hemingway made her into a tramp. I don't think she was at all. He made her promiscuous, a drunkard, all of which I can't support. She was elegant in a way.
DENIS BRIAN: By not being promiscuous do you mean she wouldn't sleep with a man unless she liked him?
HAROLD LOEB: I suppose. I can't prove it. 〈...〉
GEORGE SELDES: I can certainly understand Harold Loeb and Hemingway being fascinated by Duff Twysden. I met her in Paris when I was working for the Chicago Tribune, and living in a two-dollar-a-day room at the Hotel Liberia. No telephone. The concierge yelled up there's a call for me. There were two women there. One was the Countess Modici, who had been a friend of Vincent Sheean, a newspaperman, in Rome. She said, "This is Duff Twysden." And Duff said, "How would you like to join us and Captain Paterson at a nightclub?" Countess Modici had a great love affair with a man with whom she tried to cross the English channel in a rowboat—it's a great story. Duff was fascinating, and I thought I was honored to be invited to her party. As the evening drew on and the third expensive bottle of champagne was drunk, the two women had to go to the ladies' room. That didn't surprise me. Then Captain Paterson said he had to go to the men's room. And I sat there. This is an old holdup game. I always thought I was a tough newspaperman, but this had never happened to me before. A half hour went by and the waiter handed me a bill for something like fifty dollars for all the champagne, most of which had been drunk before I arrived. I never saw any of them again. And that's how I got stuck by Duff Twysden. That's my Lady Brett story. She was the kind of gal almost everybody falls for, like a Ziegfeld girl. They're picked for their universal attraction to men.
DENIS BRIAN: Duff Twysden eventually married artist Clinton King and died in Texas of tuberculosis when she was forty-five. Hemingway told [A. E.] Hotchner that Duffs pallbearers had all been her lovers, one of whom slipped on the church steps, dropping the casket which split open. A likely story! She was cremated.
DENIS BRIAN, "The Sun Also Burns," The True Gen: An Intimate
Portrait of Ernest Hemingway by Those Who Knew Him
( New York: Grove Press, 1988), pp. 58, 60-61