“But what about The Dunes? It’s so lovely there in the summer. I don’t know how you could stand to go anywhere else.”

“Oh, the house is all right, but the crowd, Iris. I just didn’t have the stomach for it this summer. Besides, I figured I should give some other woman a chance at the ladies’ singles at the club this year.”

“That’s sportsmanlike.”

“Yes, I thought so.” Aunt Vivian rummaged in her pocketbook and offered Iris a cigarette, which she declined. Aunt Vivian lit one for herself, put the lighter away, and said, “Anyway, Charlie has been having an affair with poor Theresa Marshall’s daughter—you know who I mean—the orphan—”

“Marie Marshall?”

“That’s the one.”

“But she’s just a young thing! She can’t be more than twenty.”

“Twenty-five, darling. You’re awfully out of touch. I don’t suppose you remember her much, but she’s a real knockout now. I can’t say I blame him—I’d do the same, in his position—though I do wonder what she sees in him.” Aunt Vivian laughed bitterly. “But never mind. It’ll all blow over. Tell me about this Philip of yours.”

“Of mine?”

“I mean he must be thoroughly infatuated with you, if he’s giving you a place like that for the summer.”

“Oh, no. It’s not like that at all. We’re paying rent.”

“How nice. Are cocktails with mine host included in the deal?”

“He’s just being kind. We’re all good friends, up in London.”

“Speaking of which.” Aunt Vivian flicked some ash into a clump of grass. “Where’s your husband?”

“Working, of course. He comes down on the weekends. He’s taking the train this evening—he should be joining us.”

“How very—Good Lord.”

Aunt Vivian stopped in the middle of the lane and stared at Highcliffe, which had just become visible around the bend. Iris followed her line of sight and laughed.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? Philip’s quite rich. He’s due to inherit some kind of title, I think. Sasha told me, but I can’t remember what.”

“You clever little devil.”

They continued up the lane to what Philip apologetically called the pile. In fact, he apologized constantly as he led them from the entrance hall through the various staterooms—served as some kind of army intelligence headquarters during the war, he said, and they still hadn’t put everything to rights—intelligence officers rather like dogs in their personal habits—drank all the good wine and the vintage port, the bastards—should just deed the whole shambles to the National Trust and let them deal with everything, serve them right—right, here we are—invited a friend or two, as you see.