Strange, what a passion Houghton seems to have for making his central character invisible. This time Christina is dead, but through the unfolding of the plot you learn to know her in her relations to the people who loved her. A distracted husband finds a pile of unaddressed letters, clearly written to her lover -- and an address book -- and sets himself the task of learning who the lover was, and what her relationship to the people in the address book. There is, perhaps, a somewhat more popular handling of his subject, than in previous books -- but the indirect method antagonizes some readers, and I question this enlarging his market. Some day -- if he gets away from his oblique and somewhat obscure methods, Claude Houghton may come through to the appreciation he deserves.