This novel has a glowing envoi from Margaret Lane's compatriots, Lord David Cecil, Sir Compton Mackenzie, even Colin Wilson. One hesitates to demur. It can perhaps best be described, as the heroine is described, as ""expressively feminine""; during the small drama compressed within a few days, it deals with a good many precarious, private feelings and apercus, all valid to be sure. The story itself alternately tracks a short cruise on the boat of James Brockhurst and his wife Molly, fortyish, an equable but passionless marriage, and the activities of James' mistress Anthea in London. Anthea, until now undemanding, is now considering leaving him. A night spent with an old friend (and an offer of companionable marriage- he's a homosexual) solves her problem. But not Molly's. She thinks of divorce, of death, and after an accidental ""night at sea"" in the sea, the author is world-wise enough not to permit fate to resolve her situation in this fashion.... A well-bred woman's novel, and certainly the British still write about indiscretion discreetly.