Katherine Mansfield was rather forced down my throat as schoolgirl of 11 or so, and I did not appreciate her at the time. Coming back to reread her stories some decades later has been a wonderful surprise. This is a painfully observed and quietly brutal collection. It also contains, in the title story, one of my very favourite lines in all of literature: "All the same, two minutes later Jose and Laura were licking their fingers with that absorbed inward look that only comes from whipped cream". "The Garden Party" is cream puffs and sudden death all jumbled together... it's Mansfield all over, and it's fantastic.