“What’s that? No, she’s still not interested in marrying anybody. She likes keeping her beaux on their toes, the little minx, and frankly I don’t blame her. They’re a damned nuisance, husbands.”

“I’ll say.”

Aunt Vivian leaned closer. “What’s that?”

“I said, they’re perfect dears, once you get used to them.”

A loud, splendid crack echoed off the boxwoods and the walls of the house. Philip dashed off toward first base, limping slightly, followed by Raffles the black Labrador. Jack, playing all the bases and the outfield, got up an instant too late to catch him at second base.

Safe! shouted Tiny. Jack threw down his cap and stomped on it.

“Tell me something,” said Iris. “What happens when you get back to New York?”

“I’ll take him back, of course. I won’t put the girls through a divorce.” Aunt Vivian finished her champagne and reached for the bottle. “It’ll burn itself out. That Marshall girl will come to her senses and realize that once I’m out of the picture, there’s no excitement in it. He’ll be begging me to take him back, and you know I don’t come cheap. Diamonds, at least.”

“But it won’t be the same, will it?”

“No. But marriage never is, is it? You go through stages, like acts in a play. Act One, you fall in love, and the birds twitter and the bees go buzz, and you’ll never love somebody else as long as you both shall live, amen. Act Two, enter the baby carriage, and all of a sudden he catches sight of a pair of firm young tits and figures life is short. Act Three . . .” Aunt Vivian narrowed her eyes at the ball game, where Little Viv had come up to bat against Pepper, and Philip Beauchamp seemed to know more than an Englishman should about taking a lead off second base.

“Act Three?”

“Act Three, you realize there’s no point letting the husbands have all the fun.”

Pepper released the ball, and Philip took off toward third base. Iris rose on her knees. Little Viv whistled her bat through the air—Striiiike! yelled Tiny—Kip hurled the ball toward poor Jack, who ran with all his might to cover third—caught the ball, a miracle—tagged a sliding Philip Beauchamp at the very instant he touched base—

Out! called Tiny.

“She’s not pulling any punches, is she?” said Sasha.

Iris whirled around. Her husband stood at the edge of the picnic blanket, carrying a smoke and a glass of whiskey in one hand and his briefcase in the other. He wore his suit with a fresh shirt and tie. He set down the briefcase and finished the whiskey.

“You’re leaving?” Iris said.

“Something’s come up. Headed back to London. Awfully sorry to miss all the fun, but it looks as if Beauchamp has matters well in hand.”