The misstep largely seems to do with timing. While her mother struck a national chord as the more glacial version of Marilyn Monroe, gracing the cover of Time magazine as an iconic representation of America's upper class, during Cornelia's era, celebrities and supermodels seemed to rule the day. Our current obsession with reality TV has brought the pendulum full swing and today's socialites are on a first-name basis with the media, and therefore mass-America, which seems to be gobbling up their antics and their fanfare. Cornelia's heyday was caught in between, but with hindsight, the actress, who has returned to Hollywood, now realizes that history has provided her with a silver lining. No longer presenting herself as the It Girl ingénue, Cornelia has caught the attention of casting agents in a very different way. A woman who has experienced more than her fair share of life experience and drama finds herself now uniquely able to channel that experience into serious acting, bringing empathy to characters her age who have undergone likewise. The work Cornelia is now being offered is enough to compel the New York native to uproot for Hollywood, a decision that has come with a price. Templeton is on the market, a contemporary decision that in some ways mirrors her father's decision 40 years earlier.

Clockwise, from top left: The Blue and White room's bay windows overlook the garden; Cecil Beaton books autographed by the author; Cornelia's grandmother's embossed velvet drapes from Old Templeton frame the salon window; the master bedroom and walk-in closet; White Eagle Estate; NYIT's de Seversky Center; the former drawing room at White Eagle; a guest bedroom at Templeton; and (center) Cornelia's portrait by Andy Warhol hangs in her bedroom.

"It's just too big," explains Cornelia. "Templeton is so beautiful, but this isn't part of my life; it was my parents' life. And it needs a family. It's got stables, and I don't ride any more. This home needs someone who loves it as much as I do, but who also has the time to take care of it." When pressed how it feels to be leaving her family house, her patriarchal legacy, Guest has no time for introspection. "It's exciting, I'm just ready to do my own thing," she enthuses.

What Guest is offering is a glimpse of another era. Pulling past Templeton's gate, you enter a sweeping driveway that leads through a velvety expanse of pony fields, the ornate topiaries garden and greenhouses, the graceful avenue of linden trees. This was the Gatsby existence, one of taste and wealth and generous proportions, and one that makes those who never knew it push their noses up against the window, just in case there's still something left to see. The stage is intact and recalls the refinement of a younger America and its players.

At the turn of the last century, the North Shore of Long Island became home to the country's "overnight" wealth, the early industrialists, and the ornate mansions they built here were showcases of new-money extravagance. At the time, there was no "American classic" or traditional life, so they created one, a lifestyle based on the area's lush woodlands and centered on hedonism, sport and animals. They pilfered liberally from the English countryside and landed gentry. These local lords of the manor entertained with grandeur, hunted foxes, played polo, raised horses and families, and set about promulgating the American class system.

It was a rarified world they cultivated, and Templeton, the Guest manse, is a breathing remnant of that extinct era. Rooms and hallways are cluttered with trophies of the glamour-danger sports of the fabulously rich-show-jumping, big-game hunting, New York high society-and this family has conquered them all. The equestrian trappings and well-worn clubbiness of the home's darker corners evoke more than a faint memory of the English country house. (The day's drizzling gray rain and soggy terriers underfoot, some of them retired hunting dogs, aren't ruining the picture either.) For bonus horse-and-hound points, an eccentric mix of illuminated equestrian paintings and dog portraits outnumber the ancestral ones. But among the family collection there are some heavy hitters. In addition to the Salvador Dali portrait of C.Z. and the Warhol of Cornelia, in the salon hang two large John Singer Sargent portraits; one is of a baby Winston Guest on the knee of his grandmother, Anne Phipps, and the other is of family patriarch, Henry Phipps, Cornelia's great-grandfather. But some of the best viewing galleries are in the bathrooms of the house, where, among the artwork (such as one of Warhol's cow portraits), hang the more intriguing family photos.

Overall, the pastiche of rare orchids, tapestry chairs and brocade screens, chintz-covered walls and bookcases, elephant tusks and animal prints set a fitting stage for some of the most interesting houseguests ever assembled. "I remember the Duke and Duchess of Windsor coming all the time. They were great friends and would come for the weekend. Truman Capote was always here, Dr. Christiaan Barnard, they gave a big party for Yves Saint Laurent and Pierre Bergé. Prince Edward. The Kennedys. Halston. Oscar de la Renta had a permanent room here, he was their third child. [Rudolph] Nureyev would come to stay; he'd be practicing ballet up in his room, and you'd hear him, through the ceiling, jumping up and down on the floor. Just a huge mix of people," recalls Guest, matter-of-factly.

Cornelia poses next to the portrait of her father with his polo pony, by William Cotton.

William Ivey Long, the Broadway costume designer who also had a regular weekend room at the house, recalls the wonder of being a guest here. "It was the classic English country house. I would come up on Friday night and leave on Monday morning, a wonderfully alternate lifestyle for me. C.Z. was a dear friend and known for her easy entertaining. Even the grandest of dinners were country weekend affairs, but with all the livery people. They would do this wonderful parade of the soufflés, four or five great soufflés would be waltzed into the room and at the same time the lids would all be lifted off. Great drama," he recalls.

In the dining room, that illustrious dinner table is currently covered with higgledy piles of old equestrian books, the only visible hint someone may soon be packing. On top of a stack is an age-stained oversized card, a contact phone list printed by a Palm Beach florist; it's dotted with phone numbers in C.Z.'s own hand and dates back more than 35 years. The Palm Beach of that time was a fortified social circle of the country's old-money scions (cash grows up quickly), and the yellowing list at hand is a calling card to the fact. Under Residences is a discriminate assemblage of the vacationers that mattered: Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., Mrs. Walter Vanderbilt, Joseph Lauder, Peter Pulitzer, Ogden Phipps, Robert Evans, Iva Patcevitch and Mrs. Winston Guest, of course. And Services catalogs numbers for a movie projectionist, druggist, masseur, stenographer, domestic help and bridge instruction. The Clubs named are those of legend: Bath and Tennis and the Everglades among them. (It was the latter that suspended C.Z.'s tennis privileges for bringing her Jewish friend, Estée Lauder, to lunch there. Historical perspective is kind to C.Z.'s playing by her own rules-what seemed heretical at the time now seems like good manners among good friends.)

This is the birthright of elegance and elitism, the one that fascinates those in the cheaper seats. "I guess I did have the Gatsby upbringing, but it was the real thing, it wasn't contrived. As spoiled as I am, I wasn't spoiled. I would say that I'm a normal person in an extraordinary situation." And this extraordinary situation was created in no small part by C.Z.'s role as an attaché of good taste; even her ordinary life was extraordinary. This is illustrated best by William Ivey Long's recollection of how the Guests passed days in the country. "She would be up early, before I got up, but she wasn't riding anymore, so her new passion was tennis. She played right up until she died. Saturday we'd go to the garden stores, have special coffee that we both drank way too much of, read the papers, dogs everywhere. A typical English country weekend. We'd read so many books-five libraries in the house-and all inscribed by the authors. People would just ship them to her. Sunday lunch was legendary, and in summer it would be around the pool, under the arbor with wisteria, and all manner of people would come. Saturday afternoons she'd be writing her gardening column, I'd be watercoloring. Once, when I was laying the paintings out on the hall carpet to dry she said 'Cecil [Beaton] did this same thing when he was designing My Fair Lady.' Let's just say it took me aback. A little bit of magic to us. But who could not hit it off with C.Z. Guest?"

The entry foyer holds head-high elephant tusks, a trophy of Winston Guest's big-game hunting. The ocelot-hide chairs feature in Bruce Weber's book A House Is Not a Home.

Much more than a socialite then? "I would not spend my time with someone who was just a socialite," he insists, "and I'm just me. I'm telling ya, I got things to do!" he laughs.

In terms of C.Z.'s fashion, I note that even with stylists at hand these days, few people have ever gotten it so right. "She always dressed herself," Ivey Long confirms. "Her fitter would come in every Saturday, a belt may be added or removed. But her style remained classic, it just morphed; understatement was always the best for her. Boy, did C.Z. look like swan."

"Her important clothes were given to the Metropolitan [Museum of Art]. One Saturday we went to see her clothes and Oscar [de la Renta] was there. C.Z. was going to be awarded the Icon Award from the CFDA [Council of Fashion Designers of America] and Oscar was going to create an homage to Mainbocher for C.Z. to wear. And he did. A beautifully tailored gold gown, and she is buried in it. Buried as an icon," he says proudly.

As a curvy, round-cheeked debutante, Cornelia was more bombshell than swan. And in the abundant pictures of her as a show-jumping champion, in her tailored riding habit with cinched-in waist and tight leggings, she looks every inch the cover of a Jilly Cooper novel. She is still very much the bombshell: "Even to this day, you walk with Cornelia and there'll be wolf-whistles," says an old friend. While Guest's slim silhouette is minus most of her teenage curves, she remains womanly, and in a fitted cashmere leisure suit by Juicy Couture, she looks sexier than a deb of decades ago has a right to.

She comes to life in her country house-sized kitchen, a wonderful hideaway on a rainy afternoon. With blue eyes flashing and wicked laughter, she feeds on a meal of lasagna and gossip. She helps herself to seconds (Cornelia walks and does Pilates if you're looking for her secret) and as she crosses her legs, reveals well-worn moccasins. "I'm a homebody. I love being at home. There's no pretense out here, it's all very laid-back. On Christmas Eve I always do it black-tie, but that's it. My real luxury are my animals. I love my dogs."

The lady of the house plays loving mother to nine dogs, a rowdy bunch that consists mainly of rescue dogs she has adopted from shelters. Bear himself is from Gentle Giants Rescue in California and is being trained as a therapy dog that will visit hospitals. Cornelia is also on the board of the Humane Society of New York and helps out with their benefits and auctions. In keeping with the traditions of the country house, Templeton has surrendered to Guest's menagerie. They lounge on velvet sofas, poke out from under kitchen counters or come pushing through heavy swinging doors, entering each room with aplomb. They know their place on the Templeton food chain and exude a fitting sense of entitlement. Then there's Cornelia's donkey, Madonna. "She follows me everywhere, she thinks she's a dog."

The dining-room table holds stacks of Winston Guest's old equestrian books. Opposite: This dramatic painting hangs in the salon and was purchased by Winston, on a whim, in Paris.

After being caught in a heavy downpour, a scruffy and sodden Jackson (Guest's adored Jack Russell) curls up on the comforter of her favorably thread-counted bed to dry off and watch his mistress primp. Guest eyes him approvingly. The only rule of the house is that they don't bicker. "You get along!" she will bark at them if there's a skirmish in the ranks. A meager demand for such fancy lodgings.

Just like her father, who sold the ancestral home to move his family to more practical lodgings, Cornelia also has chosen to accommodate a more modern life. She may, according to some, be thumbing her nose at tradition-like American royalty selling their castle-but she's not without rationale. "I had a wonderful life here. The worst part about leaving this house is the dog cemetery; every dog I've ever owned is buried up there. That's sad for me, but I want the house to be open, the rooms to be used. People need to move on."

It takes only 10 minutes for Cornelia to change her outfit and descend the staircase, face scrubbed clean and coiffed locks pulled up in a ponytail. "C'mon, Bear," she commands as she drags him, once again, into the back of her van. Bear has to go the vet. Allergies. "Okay, so who's coming?" Cornelia addresses the brood around her ankles, flinging back the vehicle door. Five wily members, aware that the intended patient has already been captured, jump in just for the ride. And with a crunch of gravel and a bevy of furry faces bobbing at the windows, she drives away from the house that has seen some of the most fabulous moments in American society. The ball may indeed be over, but for Cornelia the fun is just beginning.

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