Ugh. Walpole manages to commit the worst of DH Lawrence and Henry James's literary crimes without ever acheiving the insights of the others. The story swirls around Janet, a wellbred but poor woman who marries for companionship and security. Most of the book is about the characters around her--the good intentioned Purefoys who own the ancestral estate Wintersmoon, John Beauminster and Tom Seddon from [book: The Duchess of Wrexe] and Janet's younger, breezy sister Rosalind. Half of the book is about love, in its various forms: Janet falls in love with her husband, her husband desperately loves their son, Tom loves Rosalind but Rosalind loves no one but herself. It's rather histrionic, but the passing of some 80 years has not rendered it a meaningless puzzle.
The other half of the book is unfortunately about Walpole's favorite subject: the old vs the new. Janet and her new, aristocratic family stand for "Old England," made of traditions, stiff upper lips and doing ones duty. Rosalind and her catty friends stand for "New England," which is apparently all about criticizing the old, being completely emotionless and disconnecting physical compatability from love. The characters all talk about making a stand for their type of England, and how they have to be free to do the work they see needs doing--but absolutely none of them have any actual opinions or do anything at all. None of them translate their oh-so-important-feelings into campaigning for women's rights or labor unions or anything.
Walpole attempts more than he is capable of. ( )