MR. POWEL, a Harvard graduate of the class of 1909 and a former editor of the Lampoon, has a way of building an amusing, readable novel around a fantastic plot. This was true of his "Virgin Queene" of a year or so ago, and even more true of his latest, "Married Money," which focuses Mr. Powel's satire on points near at home and tender, that is to say on Harvard and Boston.

There is his picture of a Boston gentleman, really rich, who has made an art of Thrift (in this case Thrift is really a euphemism for the tightest sort of penny-pinching). He has invented a device, whereby his pretty niece's 1910 model car can be propelled very reasonably on kerosene, once it has been started on the more expensive gasoline. He has had his trousers turned three times. He shares his newspaper with a neighbor. And yet he is the possessor of one of the Hub's hidden fortunes. An exaggerated caricature? Of course, but very good reading.

Best of all, is the chapter on the Glim Club, which combines all of the most fantastic stories of Harvard's most fantastic final clubs. It is the oldest club in the world has songs by Bach, portraits of the founders by Van Dyke, effigies of the founders by Mme. Tussaud, presentation casks of Napoleon brandy, and a styward (Old English for steward) who is the eighth descendant in line of the original Chiffinch, the first styward, who mixed stirrup cups back in the pre-Revolutionary days for the brave lads, then members of the Glim.

For an outsider, there is enjoyment enough to be found in Mr. Powel's inconsequential but delightful story, but for someone thoroughly familiar with Harvard and Boston, there is the added pleasure of knowing intimately the scene on which Mr. Powel's characters solve their troubles to reach the ultimate happy ending.

One cannot feel that Mr. Powel went through any great creative torment to write "Married Money." On the contrary, he must have had a lot of fun doing it. He mocks a good many American foibles, but in a way so good-natured and light-hearted that he leaves the impression of preferring the foibles to perfection.