Something more than an entertaining novel to enchant the summer days: it is a human document. Not a detail is lacking in the mise-en-scene. And in a series of chapters which might be fairly called acts of the drama, is presented a vivid, graphic transcription of one phase of contemporary life. The entire ensemble is a perfect mosaic, each piece of which fits into the scheme, and of which the relative values are held with that fine touch which characterizes Edith Wharton.
m, and judged them with the contemptuous lucidity of nearly twenty years of dependence. But at the present moment her animosity was diminished not only by the softening effect of love but by the fact that she had got out of those very people more--yes, ever so much more--than she and Nick, in their hours of most reckless planning, had ever dared to hope for.
"After all, we owe them this!" she mused.
Her husband, lost in the drowsy beatitude of the hour, had not repeated his question; but she was still on the trail of the thought he had started. A year--yes, she was sure now that with a little management they could have a whole year of it! "It" was their marriage, their being together, and away from bores and bothers, in a comradeship of which both of them had long ago guessed the immediate pleasure, but she at least had never imagined the deeper harmony.
It was at one of their earliest meetings--at one of the heterogeneous dinners that the Fred Gillows tried to think "literary"--that the young man