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all do our duty. The trick is to find out where it’s really due.”
    The watchman’s jaw dropped. “N’doubt, sir,” he said hastily and clomped off.
    Richard and Celia walked silently through the nearest door, and he rang for the elevator. They descended silently to the main deck, where Richard had a single cabin and she shared a suite with her mother.
    At her cabin door she pushed back her curly salt-damp hair, her bruised mouth trembled as she looked at him. “Did you really mean that I was your fiancée? What about the—barrier?”
    Beneath the straight brows his eyes flickered, then steadied. He took her hand and kissed the palm. “Our marriage is predestined, I think,” he said. “On the outcome we must take our chances.” He bowed and vanished along the dim, vibrating passageway.
    It was only later, as she lay sleepless that she realized there had been no actual mention of love. Nor did that seem important. It’s more than “love,” she thought, that tarnished, insipid little word so readily voiced by any amorous couple. More and deeper than that kind of love. What then?
    Outside the sheltered cabin the great ship must have run into fog. Celia heard the long moaning blasts from the horn. That means danger, she thought. She considered this awhile, then no longer heard the blasts as she finally fell asleep and dreamed of Richard.
    They landed next day at Southampton in the sunlight, and after that life bustled on like a speeded-up film.
    Richard seemed possessed by feverish hurry, and he was ably assisted by the excited Lily.
    Celia and her mother stayed a week at Claridge’s, rushing through financial arrangements, buying a small trousseau, attending congratulatory parties given by Amos B. Taylor’s erstwhile business acquaintances.
    Celia saw Richard only once when he came up from Sussex to give her a beautiful but odd engagement ring. It was made of heavy gold—two hands clasping an amethyst heart. “And all the Marsdon wives have worn it, back to, oh, Tudor times, at least—I believe it was once a wedding ring.”
    She forgot her first dismay, for she had been expecting a conventional American diamond solitaire, and said sincerely, “I’m very proud, Richard, proud to wear the badge of a Marsdon wife.”
    He smiled and said, “Thing’s too big for you. I’ll take it to the jewelers. Yes, that’s our betrothal ring, and our family motto is ‘Beware,’ by the way—but then, being papists we usually
had
to, except in Bloody Mary’s reign.”
    “A bit sinister,” she said, wishing that he would sit down and hold her close, that he did not show such haste and urgency. “I’m somewhat daunted at the prospect of running Medfield Place, as my predecessors did. Do you think I can?”
    “No fear,” he said gently. “You can do it, and your money will help.”
    Already she had grown used to his frankness about material things, but she bit her underlip and frowned. “Are you sure that isn’t all you want me for?”
    Richard laughed. “You know bloody well it’s not. I’ve met plenty of willing heiresses, Greek, American, Venezuelan. But never wished to fall in love.”
    His rejoinder made her happy, and any doubts that she might have had were dispelled by Lily.
    The marriage took place in a registry office. Richard said that he had no use for churches and flummery. Celia instantly agreed. Nor did Lily, who was normally a great upholder of forms and traditions, object for long, though she was disappointed.
    “It’s practical, I suppose,” she said. “Sir Charles so sick, of course, and men do hate fuss. My dear child, do you realize how lucky you are! You’re madly in love, and it’s the sort of marriage I’ve always prayed you’d find.”
    Celia was struck by this because Lily’s prayers were often answered. Small pains, illnesses, a lawsuit when Amos Taylor’s will was contested by a disgruntled cousin, all had vanished before Lily’s serene philosophy. “We must have faith,