The wives of New York Times drama critics should not write plays—at least not such feeble ones as Lunch Hour….

The plot concerns Oliver, a psychiatrist who for obscure reasons prefers to call himself a marriage counselor and whose wife, Nora, is betraying him with a millionaire who does nothing and calls it so. This handsome fellow, Peter, has married for obscure reasons a dopey, homely, neurotic child-wife, Carrie, and is now about to elope, for no less obscure reasons, with the seemingly icy Nora. When Carrie bursts in on Oliver, revealing the cockeyed cuckolding, she and Oliver fall in love and contemplate running off to Paris together. Given the circumstances, their reasons, at any rate, are not obscure; but considering how unappealing they both are, even their reasons achieve a certain measure of obscurity….

But what need of plausible motivation where the characters are patently puppets...