Dawn Powell's 1942 novel is in many ways the typical high-low story: high society, low stakes. After reading Native Son from only two years earlier, it seems almost obscene that someone would write a story that spoofs Clare Boothe Luce and the nonexistent problems of New York society types. But, to Powell's credit, the style is crisp, the scenes are well-observed, and there is a good amount of perceptive social commentary. Powell gets up on her high horse for an opening section and once again deep in the novel, but for the most part she constructs a narrative that is compelling and gathers pace as it rolls to a conclusion.
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