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and everything will come right.”
    Yet, thought Celia, a year later at the luncheon party in the Manor’s garden room, she doesn’t guess how wrong my marriage is going now.
    “Yes,
indeed,
” said Celia brightly to Sir Harry, “I do
so
agree with you.” She searched for a clue, since she hadn’t heard the question. Not the shocking assassination of Robert Kennedy last week, they already had touched on that. So was it still the Labour Government? The Common Market? The punishing taxes and predicted devaluation of the pound?
    “ . . . and, alas, we can no longer say ‘Empire’ but rather the
Commonwealth . 
.
 .
then you do agree, Lady Marsdon?”
    “New Zealand, I hear, is most attractive,” Celia murmured. It was enough to divert Harry, who had once flown there.
    “Marvelous country, mountains, waterfalls, and a masculine challenge like Australia—we can’t find that here any more.”
    Celia maintained a receptive smile and looked down the table to Richard. Myra was now a trifle tight and displaying all her blandishments. The inviting gaze beneath mascaraed lashes, the quick meaningful touches on Richard’s hand.
    Richard quietly removed his hand. He raised his voice and addressed his wife. “What about this afternoon, Celia? Shall we make a set of tennis? Or some bridge perhaps, it looks like rain. Have you any plans for our guests?”
    Before she could answer, Lily spoke. “Couldn’t we all rest a while, and
then
an expedition!”
    Celia saw her husband’s mouth tighten, and knew that he was annoyed at her mother’s taking over. She herself was relieved. She had made no special plans for the afternoon. She had failed Richard again. He liked everything to be structured and punctual. Besides, Lily so often took over, not aggressively but from habit.
    It’s wonderful to be sure of things, Celia thought. I used to be, wasn’t I? In the polite pause which followed Lily’s suggestion, Myra spoke up languidly. “What expedition, Mrs. Taylor? I certainly don’t want to gape at a ‘Stately Home,’ or to go and see if the bluebells are out in somebody’s copse.”
    Igor giggled, Sir Harry and George Simpson looked alarmed. Only little Sue was always eager for anything. Richard, Akananda and Edna Simpson showed no expressions.
    “Oh, no, Duchess,” Lily said, “not the sort of thing you mean. It’s to see a very picturesque place in Kent, about an hour from here. Nobody lives in it except ghosts. Some of them six hundred years old! I have some friends who know the owner, an American who spends most of his time in the States or traveling; they say one might get in by appointment. I’ve the phone number.”
    Richard made a sharp movement which knocked over his wineglass. “Do you by any chance mean Ightham Mote?” He addressed Lily in so cold and dry a tone that she gaped at her son-in-law while she nodded.
    Myra raised her eyebrows, the other guests were suddenly aware of tension, as was Celia, who managed to laugh and say, “Good Lord, what an odd name! What kind of a moat? What are you talking about, Mother?”
    Dr. Akananda looked at her. “No,” he said involuntarily. “Please do not pursue this.” But nobody heard him.
    Richard transferred his dark gaze from Lily to Celia. “She is speaking of an old manor house which I visited when I was twelve, and found exceptionally unattractive, oppressive.” He stood up and said to Dodge, who was deftly covering the wine stain, “No doubt her ladyship would like coffee served by the pool, since it’s still sunny.”
    Myra lifted her chin. “But Richard
darling,
” she protested, at once reversing her position and glad to annoy Richard, whom she was finding tiresomely unresponsive, “Mrs. Taylor’s expedition sounds divine. I mean positively creepy. I simply adored the ghost we had at Drewton Castle. Some sort of lady in white in the north wing. Not that I ever saw her, though Drewton claimed he often did. Once I think I heard her