September 1960
This elegant tale - inexorably French - written by a kind of Constance Spry of human relations and impeccably translated (by which I mean into beautiful English, but you know all the time that it is good French), is all about one thing leading so neatly to another that it accumulates a poetic bulk of fantastic probability. It is light hearted, trivial and charming and none of these words are derogatory, because those seem to me to be its deliberate intentions.