To begin with, there is the style. We have often been told that Mr. Ford is a master of style; and so, in truth, he is. But of what use is style all alone by itself? The style of _Some Do Not ..._ is the grand style, simple, sonorous, purged of affectation, well suited to such a novel as _War and Peace_; but it is not the right style for _Some Do Not_.... Indeed, in my opinion, no style is the right style for that novel. _Some Do Not ..._ has for me all the defects of the literature of sophistication, with none of its virtues. It is false and pretends to be true; it is artificial without being witty; it is romance without glamour; it is essentially literary; it is without any more sense of humour than that required to keep it from becoming ridiculous; it has not a touch of spontaneity; it is as dreary as it is well done. In a negative way the thing is perfect--ever and ever so careful. Mr. Ford introduces an incredible Irish priest by saying that he ‘had a brogue such as is seldom heard outside old-fashioned English novels of Irish life’--thereby protecting himself from the start; he would have been incapable of writing ‘across the _breast_ of her dark _dress_’; and it goes without saying that in his creditably meagre use of foreign words he adopts none of the original spellings that star Mr. Arlen’s romance (_aristocracie_, _giggolo_, and the like). Mr. Ford’s prose is compact, sober, and restrained. But, since this is true, it becomes the more important to discover what it is all about.