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The story of Arnold Condorex's five encounters with Harriet Hume in London opens with the two of them running downstairs from her bedroom, apparently having been to bed and very much in love. Unfortunately she has developed psychic powers and makes the mistake of telling him so. Result: a long gap before they meet again.

I wanted to like this book and was disappointed. Harriet was just so... twee. A little elfin thing with hands so small and dainty it seems impossible that she could be a pianist, and sickeningly cheerful and charming in the face of Arnold's betrayals. He is a complete snake, and there is too much purple prose for my taste.

I hope we no longer live in a world where a woman has to pretend not to mind when the love of her life loses interest a few minutes after leaving her bed and departs for another continent without looking back. But I'm not completely sure that we do. Altogether, this was a depressing read.