It is possible to write about the «smart set» and not be
sophomoric or flippant. Edith Wharton does this, and her new
novel, «The Reef» (Appletons), is a serious and important criticism
of the aimless existence of the idle rich. Her criticism,
however, is made subtly; it is a matter not of statement but of
suggestion. George Darrow, a diplomatist, drifts into a foolish
intrigue with Sophy Viner, a commonplace little person who has been
making a dreary living as a companion to a vulgar woman of wealth.
After a Parisian sojourn they separate, and when next he meets her,
after three years, she is acting as governess to the little
daughter of Anna Leath, a widow whom he is courting. This is
embarrassing enough, but worse is in store. Sophy, he finds, is
affianced to Owen Leath, Mrs. Leath's stepson. There is something
reminiscent of Pinero in Mrs. Wharton's method of juggling these
troubled souls. «The Reef» could be made into an admirable drama.
The plot comes to its climax naturally, in the manner of life, with
that irony which is characteristic of the way of the gods with
foolish people. For Mrs. Wharton's people are foolish—they are
vain, selfish and flatly materialistic. She has knowledge of but
not love for mankind. Perhaps it is fairer to say that she has no
love for the class of which she writes with such cruel realism. It
is certain that the future historian who wishes a clear idea of the
thoughts and actions of the most worthless people of this
generation will need but two books—«The House of Mirth» and «The
Reef.»
