A pseudo-psychological novel, pretentious in conception and pedestrian in execution. As to the style, it strikes us as artificial, and crammed with stylistic infelicities. The story spans a twenty four hour period, mirroring the Clays through the eyes of the employers, children, servants, employees, would-be-lover, physician, etc. Small space, inconclusively concluded, given to the tragedy of the day: too much space to the unimportant background of the recorders. As you may gather, we didn't think much of the book.