Elizabeth Jane Howard is one of those English writers of agreeable distinction whom one remembers having read with pleasure long after the particulars of her novels dissolve--almost too readily. This time however she has told a story of far greater dramatic definition, shifting from commonplace entrapment to direr horror and utilizing the multiple perspectives she has always ably managed. As well as the irreproachable detail with which she sets her scenes, from a ""fumed-oak stained-glass barracks"" of a house in the lonely country to the iridiscent Cote d'Azur. Living in the ""barracks"" is May who has made an unwise second marriage to the seemingly blimpish Herbert, a ""death worse than fate""; getting away from the premises is his daughter Alice, to achieve a still drearier destiny. While May's children, the charming, feckless Oliver and innocent Elizabeth, go up to London to live in a precarious, sophisticated fashion. It is Elizabeth however who falls in love--unequivocally and exclusively--with John, a man old enough to be her father having a daughter young enough to resent her. This is all too seductive for life or Miss Howard to sanction. . . . The conciliatory May, John, Elizabeth--particularly Elizabeth, and even Oliver are very appealing and as for Herbert, that dull ""Daddo,"" he'll surprise you. The book is astute, experienced, vulnerable, and it reads with incomparable ease.