A sure best seller and best renter, but a very mediocre book. And that in spite of Marquand's facility, his glibness, his adeptness in taking off people at their worst. He has lost his rapier thrust of wit in this novel of the gilded rich, almost he seems to gloat a bit over thirty room apartments on Park Avenue and palatial estates in Connecticut, complete down to the latest in swimming pools and mases. The market that wallows in lush details of Hollywood's extravaganza will like this picture of the home life of a successful self-made industrialist, known as B. F. to his friends and family. But I don't think anyone will have either sympathy or affection for his daughter, who was unhappy but didn't quite know why, who resented having things made too easy for her all her life, but not enough to do without, who had a father fixation and wanted to run the men who loved her. She found it did not work with Bob Tasmin, who seemed ""easy"" but really had a whole set of mores of his own; and ultimately she found it didn't work with Tom Brett, the radical newspaper man she married. This is a story told in the cliches of today, and the style at times- particularly the dialogue- is right out of a blend of Variety and Yank. Mainly it is a story of war's dislocations, at home and abroad; but through flash-backs you get the background of the three main characters, Polly, Tom and Bob. And the only person in the book you really like is B.F. who dies almost at the start. Too bad- John Marquand can do such superb social comedy- and such trash.