If that sounds like someone who longs for another time, it may be. Columbia, who describes himself as a social historian, often looks at the present as a pale imitation of the past. His reading tends toward history (that week he was reading Jacques Barzun’s From Dawn to Decadence, and his conversation tends to scurry from George Bush to 17th-century memoirists). Asked by a New York Times reporter about prospects for a new society magazine, Gotham, geared toward younger readers, Columbia sniffed. "I find the young are really boring," he said. "They don’t know anything and they’re not curious about anything."

Contrast that with the reverence with which Columbia describes the hostess of a 5th Avenue party organized to kick off a benefit for a cancer center: "Mrs. Petrie loves Casablanca lilies, and their beauty is redolent. They speak for her presence; all part of the whole. Mrs. Petrie is Old School; beauty, discipline, perfection. A creative force called style, which, like its sister, courtesy, is a rare achievement."

That sort of testimonial will get a writer invitations, though even without one Columbia manages quite well, thank you. At an Oscar de la Renta fashion show he arrived to find that some sort of glitch left him with no seat assignment. Not to worry. Ivana Trump to the rescue.

I told her my problem," Columbia recounted in his diary. "She said, in her trilly, European/Czech accent (dahling), not far from the Gabors in their prime, ‘I have an extra ticket because Roffredo (Gaetani, the man in her life) couldn’t make it, so come with me.’" Columbia did, as the crowds parted and photographers snapped. "Ivana was a much better ticket than the one I never got in the mail," he concluded.

Columbia does occasionally make reference to marriages of convenience, squabbles over inheritances and other items swept out from under the rug. A takeout on a gay man denied membership to a prestigious Newport beach club still has socialites there fuming, he says. And he can be acerbic, as in this summation of Bill Clinton friend Denise Rich and her entrance to New York society, about which Columbia was interviewed by CNN: "As far as Mrs. Rich’s social ascent is concerned, it is not unlike that of many other socially prominent New Yorkers," he said. "She came to town with a lot of money, bought herself a large and luxurious penthouse triplex, hung out the ham, and they all came running."

His reporting is largely charitable (as was the overall thrust of the Denise Rich commentary), however, cementing his reputation in New York society as a good guy.

Oh, isn’t he wonderful," said Nan Kempner, socialite and cookbook author, in a telephone interview from Paris, the telephone number provided by her assistant. "I’m crazy about him. He’s a great pal."

He’s just an incredibly charming, likeable fellow," said the wife of a prominent New York investment banker, dividing her time last summer between Manhattan and Southhampton. "He’s good company and in terms of studying society, I mean, what makes David’s writing more special than anybody else’s around I suppose is that he always has a theme. He ties it to the architecture, he ties it to the beautiful boiserie." When Columbia wrote about a party at her Manhattan apartment, he tied the Versailles-like decoration to a history of the actual Versailles, she said. "It’s not just a bunch of names at a party," she said. "When he does his real stories . . . he usually has done a lot of research and he’s usually learned a lot about the family and the history and the architecture and the kinds of cars they drove. He has a lot of detail and it makes it much more interesting."

For Columbia, who has kept a journal for more than 30 years, detail is a tool used in crafting vivid character portraits, including this paragraph from a profile of Sarah Churchill, a Vanderbilt who was raised at Blenheim. "She was a very elegant woman," Columbia wrote on the occasion of the death of his long-time friend and confidante last year. "A natural elegance. It wasn’t her figure, which was long and narrow and somewhat ungainly. She had the Churchill legs and gait, long, thin, bowed and delicate. She had terrible problems with her legs in her last years. She wasn’t a beauty as she got older and her ample bosom became operatic, which did not impress her. But as bossy and domineering as she was, she was a very feminine woman. A tomboyish girl who was only timid about her alluringness."

It is a writer’s observation, the perspective of someone standing off to one side, and that is what Columbia has been doing for many years. "When you’re a writer you’re always relating to the world through a kind of prism," he said, "and you are an outsider even if you’re an insider."

As the society insider Columbia gets dozens of party invitations every week, is greeted at restaurants like an old friend, is called by the New York media to comment on high society. At Michael’s restaurant that afternoon it was Columbia the insider with whom the tabloid publisher came over to chat. The conversation went like this:

Publisher: "See you later. Have a good weekend."

Columbia: "Where are you going?"

Publisher: "I’m opening my house on Center Island."

Columbia: " Oh, you’re on Center Island."

Publisher: "By Oyster Bay and Bayville."

Columbia: "Have you been there a long time?"

Publisher: "Five years. This is the old north shore of Long Island. It’s a great area. The Howards live there. The Kennedys. David Kennedy owns a big old place. A big group of swells. I have this wonderful house. It was last decorated in 1955 by Billy Baldwin. It was owned by Jack Howard. Scripps Howard."

Columbia: "Yeah. His wife died not long ago."

Publisher: "Pamela Howard."

Columbia: "Yes, Pamela Howard. I’ve met her. Well, good for you. Lucky you." And like the little boy who only saw this world in magical tales told by his mother and father, David Columbia meant it.