While she was in the kitchen, Melrose had a look at some pictures hanging on the wall around the fireplace mantel. He recognized Lady Summerston in several of them, but not the group of men around her. A hunting party, it appeared to be, for several of the men were looking self-important with their shotguns on display. Melrose was surprised to see, in one of them, Lady Summerston holding a shotgun. She was the only woman in the party. He studied the surroundings. In the background was a large house, mansion-large. He wondered what connection this estate had to the Summerstons.

When Flora reappeared with a tea tray, Melrose moved quickly to take it from her and set it on a coffee table, which he cleared of a large vase of cut flowers.

“Thanks,” she said, picking up the silver teapot.

“I was looking at the pictures there—” He nodded toward the mantel. “Are they of an estate somewhere?”

“Yes. Gerald Summerston’s family home. It’s quite large. Or was. I don’t know what it is now.” She held up the sugar bowl, then the jug of milk.

“Both, but not much of either, thanks. Are some of those of a shooting party? And does your aunt shoot?”

“Oh, my goodness, yes. She’s a better shot than most of the men; that’s probably why they’re looking so grim, standing round her.” Flora laughed.

“Your uncle stays in London, then?”

She nodded, sipped her tea. “He doesn’t care for the country. I do. This place is so wonderful—But go on. Tell me about this Mr. Strether. Is his name really Lambert?”

“’Fraid so.”

“Henry James would probably rather face down that audience for his poor play than face Mr. Strether.”

“Poor Henry. Though it’s hard to think of James as ‘poor’ in anything. You know, I actually took over Lamb House in Rye for a short while when—” But he didn’t want to bring up the death of Billy Maples. That would sidetrack them for the rest of the afternoon.

“When what?”

“The National Trust’s resident had to vacate the place early. Lamb House was fascinating. But back to the present Lambert Strether. When I heard him talking about it, I was a little concerned for you because Strether isn’t the best candidate for a tenant.” Melrose told her about Strether’s various schemes without actually saying “con man.”

She said it for him. “He’s a con artist. Good grief.”

“Artistry has little to do with it. But were you actually looking to let your carriage house?”

“Heavens, no. Especially since it’s not ours.”

“I’m happy to hear that. I’d hate to have the man as my neighbor. He’d be forever at my place. My aunt is his particular friend. And she’s forever at my place.”

“I don’t believe I know her.”

“Perhaps you could join us, say, for dinner one evening.”