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In 1930s London, Miss Guinevere Pettigrew, a forty-year-old spinster of “faded gentility��, dutifully reports to the employment office at 9:15 one drizzly November morning, and is promptly informed that two suitable positions have come up. One of them is a nursery governess job for Miss LaFosse, and Miss Pettigrew will be able to make the 10 o’clock appointment if she quickly makes her way to Onslow Mansions. Only after the spinster’s repeated knocking at the door of the opulent residence does the young and lovely Delysia LaFosse answer the door, wearing a negligee and looking as though she has walked off a movie set. The job is not discussed because Miss LaFosse has a more urgent problem: she needs help getting rid of one man before another arrives. Miss LaFosse is an actress and a singer with a lot of irons in the fire. She has to hedge all her bets: if one man won’t back her next gig, another needs to be lined up who will. And then, of course, there’s the fellow in the background who wants to marry her.

Miss LaFosse has so much going on at her residence that there’s no time to discuss what Miss Pettigrew is even there for. She conveniently poses as the young woman’s friend and ends up staying for a very busy, active, transformational day, full of romance and glamour and attention.

Many readers have been charmed by this light, frothy confection. Certainly, Winnifred Watson has created a number of clever situations and much witty repartee. I wanted to like the book, and, in fact, I think I did like the first third. After that, though, I just got tired of the whole idea. I got it: an aging spinster has a fairy-tale dream day. Being seen in quite a different light by others, being required to improvise and act a part, she discovers herself to be more than she thought.

This wasn’t an entirely unpleasant read, but, after a point, I just wanted it to be over. I knew, based on the whole set-up and tone, it couldn’t possibly end badly for our protagonist. Although rather racy for the 1930s (Miss LaFosse has many lovers, one of whom uses and provides her with cocaine), the book is nevertheless very much a product of its time. It is not politically correct, and, in fact, contains a couple of jarring anti-Semitic remarks. Miss Pettigrew disapproves of one of Miss LaFosse’s lovers because he has traces of “the Jew�� in him and isn't quite English.

Were Winnifred Watson’s other novels readily available (I don't believe they are), I would make no effort to seek them out. As I said, many have found this book delightful, but I found the whole thing wore thin pretty quickly.