Do you remember England, in an almost pre-Raphaelite mist -- ""Roses, the sound of bees, the heat hovers."" Will you remember Emily, beautiful and rich and very unhappily married and so much in love with Dowson and forever after that idyll in the Adriatic -- some ten years after when Dowson vanishes altogether? And will you ever really know Dowson with his silences and disappearances and his obsession with the youthful death he's half in love with? And who was the woman, the much older woman, with whom he was once seen in Biarritz? And will you be attuned to all these pretty people with their pretty things -- a porcelainized world of the the dansant and the faro table so that any mention of the television is almost an infraction? Ah, a gently aspirated ah, will you remember this (Marlowe wrote Dandy in Aspic and A Single Summer with L.B.) since it all takes place on some pensive (a favorite word), triste perimeter of sentiment? Perhaps not, but if you let yourself go you'll enjoy it before the lemon sorbet altogether melts.