In the words of Katherine Mansfield's review, the characters in The Age of Innocence 'are human beings arranged for exhibition purposes'. Initially Mansfield commends Wharton's equilibrium of irony and romance: '... to keep these two balanced by all manner of delicate adjustments is so much a matter for her skillful hand that it seems more like play than work'. Soon, however, her impatience with the novel erupts:

But what about us? What about her readers? Does Mrs Wharton expect us to grow warm in a gallery where the temperature is so sparklingly cool? We are looking at portraits -- are we not? These are human being arranged for exhibition purposes, framed, glazed and hung in the perfect light.

Is it -- in this world -- vulgar to ask for more? To ask that the feeling shall be greater than the cause that excites it, to beg to be allowed to share the moment of exposition (is that not the very moment that all writing leads to?) to entreat a little wildness, a dark place or two in the soul?