This wisp of a story (her second very short novel--My Sister, My Friend--1965) is just about as impalpable as the pollen count and can be read more easily than remembered. It's almost impossible to place in time; old-fashioned snobberies co-exist with newer fashion touches. And it's told in an immodest, sometimes deliberately insufferable first person by Jane, twenty-two, during the summer when her cousin Belinda, whose parents were impossible, comes to stay with them. Belinda is now orphaned, childlike, untidy, gauche, but she has a nakedly open capacity for love to which Ronny, whom Jane plans to marry some time because he's very ""eligible,"" responds. Jane, on the other hand, is a little attracted by Belinda's older brother, all she has left anywhere, who is killed, and Belinda is quickly despatched--off into the big world--with a small check and a clear conscience by Jane's mother. The point made is minimal enough--the contrast between those who love, and those who can't, and this is only for those with lots of pin money.