What fun Miss Buncle, or should I say Mrs. Abbot, is. She cannot help observing her neighbors and unconsciously understanding much more about them than they even understand about themselves. She is so innocent and naive in many ways and so sharp and observant in others, and Stevenson makes that seem perfectly natural.
I seldom laugh aloud while reading. I admit to a slightly strange sense of humor, so not everything that is meant to tickle me does. I have laughed aloud a dozen times in this book.
Mr. Marvell, the painter, when asked why he did not paint his children:
”Trivona, I say, is paintable, but what use is that when she cannot pose for two consecutive minutes without fidgeting? Ambrose could pose for an hour but has the face of a Botticelli angel–My God!” said Mr. Marvell, violently, “I could paint Ambrose with my eyes shut. An art school would leap at Ambrose. Here am I, stuck in the depths of the country with no models to be had for love or money, and God afflicts me with Trivona and Ambrose.”
I found that hysterical.
Mr. Abbott finds himself taken in hand and relocated. The relationship between Barbara Buncle and her new husband is so dear and congenial, each of them trying so hard to please one another. It warms the heart. There are sweeping descriptions of architecture and countryside that are so vivid you feel you have stepped into an English house and gardens and strolled along the streets of an English town.
I must not elaborate on the mischief or the relationships of Miss Buncle herself, because I cannot think of what to say about her that would not give away the plot of this delightful sequel, and nobody wants me to do that! I dare say, if you have already read the first book, you will find Stevenson was up to the task of writing a sequel that rose to the same standard and presented an entirely new cast of characters to laugh at, and dare I say (pun intended), at which to marvel.