Strange as it seems, the quiet, classical architects of the last century have come to look fresh and vital again. And not just for their kitsch value, or as fodder for postmodernist appropriation, but for their splendidly imaginative, well-planned, and deeply humane buildings. To be sure, they always commanded respect as the makers of our museums, libraries, and capitols, but it was respect of a frosty, honorific sort; you might admire a nimble paraphrase of a Renaissance portico without wanting to try it yourself. Yet there are other indignities besides being forced to imitate Palladio—such as being forced, for example, to imitate Rem Koolhaas—and so it has come about that the generation of Stanford White, Cass Gilbert, and John Russell Pope has come in for a long and careful second look. In this reconsideration, few have accomplished as much as Peter Pennoyer and Anne Walker, who have published pioneering monographs on Delano and Aldrich (2003) and Warren and Wetmore (2006) and who now turn their attention to Grosvenor Atterbury, that dapper, diminutive genius whose Yale classmates knew him as “boy-face.”

Atterbury (1869–1956) was the son of a wealthy New York corporate lawyer who summered with his family at Shinnecock Hills. There he met William Merritt Chase, who ran Shinnecock’s influential art colony, which he attended between summers at Yale, practicing plein-air painting. After graduation in 1892, he shifted to architecture, spending two years in the office of McKim, Mead & White and another studying in Paris. His apprenticeship