What I remembered from this novel was the opera scene (still glorious) and the tragic climax (still brutal so that I slowed down coming up to it in hopes of preventing its appearance). What I forgot was how witty it was, how warm, how accomplished for such an early novel in a writer's career. In short, it was actually better than I remembered, a rare accomplishment for an author I love so much. Not as magnificent as Proust nor as fine a writer as James, but equally as wise as both and much more welcoming than either.