For those to whom the unrealities of the world of which Oppenhelm writes (a world no longer existing, if it ever did, in which the luxury classes existed mentioned from the outer world) held infinite fascination, this book will have much of the same urbanity, charm, and pleasant superficiality. Here is the autobiography of a man who has traveled in smooth places, freed from the bondage of the family business by the success of his books, delighting in the social, diplomatic and polite groupings. He knew the South of France (scene of many of his books), before and after the last war, -- the vil, villains and gambling. He writes of his job in the first world war, of the famous people he knew, of his adventures in escaping from France with his wife in this war. He talks of books and writing and fellow craftsmen, of publishers and readers. But when he comes to the events against which his little pattern was plotted, once again one comes up against the sense of unreality. Slick stuff.