This placid, you might say tepid, constitutional down memory lane spends a summer on the Riviera with a large family of unostentatiously proper Philadelphians, actually Quakers; it is obviously autobiographical and might have done better as such since the author has not been able to endow this marginal novel with any genuine story. If you can remember the calm correctitude of a childhood under an Eton collar, you may identify this ancien regime where they play Double Canfield or take gouter, play endless elaborate games which involve a great deal of dressing-up, discuss religions openly with Father although other things remain well hidden. Such as the rather dubious character of dashing Uncle Dick who comes to stay with them, and the summer closes in with a faintly nasty episode. . . . For the quiet hour--you may find yourself dropping off.