Big claims are periodically made for Ivy Compton-Burnett's novels - yet, after decades, she remains a minority enthusiasm. This one (1953) is typical of many: short, elegantly dry in tone, full of characters who constantly shed po-faced epigrams, and with the usual family tensions and undertones. There is very little "background" or scene-painting and the reader is obviously expected to fill in or colour between the lines himself. Like Firbank or Peacock, Compton-Burnett is an acquired taste and an ultra-English phenomenon; but her books, though repetitive in theme and setting, have a cold, cerebral stylishness and intelligence which stay on in your mind.