Anyway, the story went, Uncle Charlie’s mother, who had been widowed several years earlier, began to panic around the middle of July and paid a call on the Walkers. In a scene right out of some cobwebby old novel, she told them she’d see the entire Walker clan blackballed if That Tramp didn’t renounce her precious only child, the last legacy of her departed husband. So Aunt Vivian said all right, whatever you say, and the next thing you knew, the Walkers had taken ship on the Queen Mary (second class) for a European tour. They were in Florence by the time Uncle Charlie caught up with them, and in a dramatic tableau on the Piazza Michelangelo at either dawn or sunset, depending on whom you asked, while the rising (or setting) sun turned the tiled rooftops fiery orange, he went down on one knee, extracted a four-carat diamond ring from his pocket, and begged Aunt Vivian to do him the honor of becoming his wife.

Needless to say, they were married by Labor Day.

As for the dowager Mrs. Schuyler? Acknowledging she was outfoxed, she presented The Dunes to the new couple as a wedding gift—really sportsmanlike, when you thought about it—and moved down to Palm Beach, never to return. No doubt she was cackling into her bougainvillea right now, Iris imagined. That fiery dawn (or sunset) on the Piazza Michelangelo seemed to have long since faded.

Philip cheerfully unloaded the suitcases from the back of the cart and carried them to the door. Iris noticed him and called out, “No, Philip, you mustn’t! Really, we can manage!”

“Oh, don’t stop the poor man. Can’t you see he’s enjoying himself?”

“Don’t listen to her!” Iris told him.

Philip, who had just delivered the last suitcase to the stoop, made an extravagant bow. “Delighted to be of service. Dare I hope you’ll be settled in time to wander up to the main house for drinks this evening?”

“Drinks? Only if you insist,” said Aunt Vivian.

“Very good. Around six, then? And if you’re wondering about the children, they’re having a jolly adventure in the mud puddles over by the flowerbeds.”

IN HER LETTER, WHICH had arrived around the beginning of May, Aunt Vivian didn’t explain why she was bringing her young daughters—but not her husband—to England for six weeks, smack bang in the middle of that time of year when Schuylers traditionally migrate to the eastern end of Long Island. Iris broached the question as she walked with Aunt Vivian down the beaten lane across the meadow for drinks at Philip Beauchamp’s house.

“He simply couldn’t get away,” Aunt Vivian said. “The firm’s got too much work at the moment. So I told him I’d just take the girls and go without him, if he didn’t mind.”