Before retiring to their separate rooms Celia paused outside her door to give Paul plenty of time to kiss her goodnight, and to remind him of something she'd said earlier.

      "Remember me saying this could be just the occasion I need, Paul?  Well, I'm still trying to decide if it is.  It's worrying me."

      "You mean, something about us?"

      "Something about me."  She stared at the ground, trying to balance the conflicting emotions of guilt and duty which had been gnawing at her conscience all day.  "But as we're officially engaged, I suppose it's the right thing to do, and maybe the sooner the better, in case...  well, it's praying on my mind a lot, Paul, and it's stupid to let it go on.  It's another ghost that needs exorcising."

      "Do you want to sit and talk about it?"

      Celia answered Paul's question by first opening her door and then handing him the key.

      "Tomorrow morning," she said.  "As soon as you're awake, come and visit me.  It's something personal I have to share with you, Paul, before we get married.  It won't be easy or pleasant, but it's important to me, do you understand?"

      He nodded.  "I think so."

      "Let's make it half past seven.  Good night, my love.  Sleep well, and Paul - pray for me."

      "Didn't you know, sweetheart?  It's something I've done every night, ever since I met you."

      They stood a while, kissing each other.  Paul's heart was filled with further longing, but he knew that until they became husband and wife this would be as far along the path of connubial bliss that Celia would allow him to go.  He loved her all the more for that, respecting her for the proper codes of conduct which she held so dear.

      With reluctance they eventually parted.  As she watched Paul disappearing down the corridor towards his own room, Celia sensed he already had a fair idea of what the mysterious morning appointment might entail.  But how would he react, she wondered, and just how many private and personal details should she divulge?

      She lay in bed reading, yet not a word of the book entered her troubled mind.  She tried settling down to sleep, but her thoughts remained in a turmoil as she kept asking herself, over and over again, whether Paul was ready to accept her imperfections.  There should always exist a sacred mystery between any man and woman before they became one, she knew that.  But Celia and Paul had a tougher ordeal than most couples.  If only she weren't so different, so incomplete, so unsightly.

      At six o'clock she woke to the noise of Bristol traffic, and lay for an hour listening to the bustling sounds of a great city waiting to be explored.  Then at seven-fifteen she sat on the edge of her bed and prepared for Paul's arrival.

      While it was considerably larger, the layout of the room was almost a mirror image of her own bedroom in Harrow Street.  But despite the inconvenience, Celia had hidden things as usual on the far side of her bed.

      At half part seven precisely, there came a gentle knock on her door.

      "Is that my favourite milkman?" she called, as she drew the covers over herself.  "If you've lost my key you'll need to wait at least ten minutes.  If not, come in."

      The door opened and there stood Paul, dressed and looking very self-confident.

      "Good morning, my love."  He came forward to kiss her.  "Sleep well?"

      "Not very," she sighed with an endearing yawn.  "I was too tensed up.  Maybe I'll sleep better tonight."

      "I hope it wasn't because of making you drive the car?" he enquired anxiously.

      "No, I enjoyed that.  No, it's about this morning.  This is far more nerve-racking.  Paul, just sit beside me for a minute, will you?"

      Celia patted the bed and he took her trembling hand between his palms.

      "Oh, my poor love," he said.  "But what's to be nervous of?  You're not worried about being engaged, surely?  If you think I'd ever run off and leave you..."

      "Paul, I need to talk," she broke in, "and I don't know where to start, but I'd rather we talked here on our own.  I couldn't bear to think of Robin, or even Mum, eavesdropping outside the door at home.  I need to get this over with, Paul."

      "Okay.  Let's nestle up close, and we'll talk for as long as you like, in absolute privacy."

      Paul lay beside Celia, tenderly stroking her hair to help her relax.

      "Well," she began at last, "as you might imagine, certain parts of me aren't pretty to look at.  Now that we're officially engaged, you need to know more about how I am, Paul, about the more personal side of my defects.  And I need to get this ordeal out of the way before we ever think of sending out wedding invitations.  It probably isn't the right thing for me to be doing with you yet, but I must - it's too important."

      "My love, there's no hurry.  Whatever you want, whenever you're ready."

      "It's a nagging dream I keep having, Paul, of standing beside you in church on our wedding day, knowing there's an ugliness about my body that you're not prepared for.  I'd feel awful.  I couldn't let that happen.  The fullness of marriage we'll enjoy together at the right and proper time, but my scars and bits of equipment mustn't come as a shock to you on our wedding night.  It wouldn't be fair to either of us.  We've somehow got to get over all that, or it might spoil everything just when we don't want it to.  So this morning, I've decided I want you to know exactly what you're letting yourself in for, to see how I dress every day.  Do you mind?"

      Paul pressed his lips to her cheek.  "My love, it's natural for you to be shy and worried, but there's no need.  I know you're different, but so is everyone, one way or another.  I'll be part of your life too, remember.  Tell me how I can help."

      "Oh, Paul.  I desperately want you to help, of course, but I don't know what's best.  I certainly don't want this to embarrass either of us.  And I couldn't bear it if you simply stood in the corner and watched.  But I thought it might be all right this morning if you could help me get ready.  Then you'll know what goes on, and hopefully I'll feel easier too.  That's what I want, Paul.  We both need to share this."

      "I know, and there's nothing to be nervous about."

      "Nevertheless, I am.  I've always done this on my own, Paul, until today.  No-one sees me as I really am, not even Mum.  The nurses and doctors helped at first, but nothing seemed real then - it was all just a bad dream in those days.  But today is real, Paul, and you're real.  And what you're about to see is real.  I don't like being like this, Paul, I hate it, but this is how I am, and there's nothing I can do to alter it.  So please, my darling, if you'd rather not stay and help, if you feel you're not ready, I'll understand.  We can try some other time."

      "But we won't.  We'll tackle these ghosts of ours today, sweetheart, because I love you.  Let's pretend it's like teaching me to drive a car.  What's the first thing I need to know?"

      "The first thing you have to get used to is that my right leg ends here."  Celia took Paul's hand and placed it over her thigh, covered only by thin blankets.

      "I'd already worked that much out for myself," he said.  "Do you want me to see it?"

      "I don't think so, not yet, not unless you want to.  But that's all there is, Paul.  There's also two horrid scars that go right across my tummy.  I don't want to show you those either, but I'd hate you to be disappointed when you catch sight of me later."

      "My poor lamb, is it likely I'd be disappointed?  Remember, I've only ever known you as you are today.  Of course I know you once had two pretty legs and probably a very nice little tummy too, just as I once had pink cheeks and curly blond hair.  But I love you as you are, my darling.  You're beautiful in all the right places for me, and I love your honest charm and lively spirit.  I also admire you tremendously for the way you cope with this.  It's not that I feel sorry for you, don't think that.  I'm just exceedingly proud of you, proud to say to everyone downstairs, to the whole of Bristol, that this delightful, clever girl is going to be my wife."

      While Paul was talking, Celia undid a few buttons on her nightdress.  Then she took his hand and laid it firmly over her bare abdomen, guiding him towards the scarred area she felt so conscious of.  She knew what he would find, a couple of horizontal folds and a long ridge that would never grow flat or smooth.

      She peered earnestly into his face for any signs of doubt or concern.  But he continued to smile as he caressed the delicate warm area he was permitted to explore.

      "That feels good," he grinned sheepishly.

      "Same here, but we mustn't get naughty.  We have others things to do.  And since you're here to help, would you reach under my pillow and pull out a strange woollen thing."

      Paul felt around beneath the pillow and found a thick white sock, like a football sock but without any heel.

      "It's called a stump sock," she said.  "Not very nice, is it!  It reaches to the very top of my leg, but it doesn't need much knitting to do that.  I'd better put it on myself - it's a bit intimate."

      She wrinkled her nose as she spoke and drew the sock down into the bedclothes.  "While I'm doing that, Paul - and here comes the moment I'm dreading most - will you go round to the other side of my bed and pick up the big long thing you'll find on the floor."

      Paul kept his gaze lovingly on her face as he walked round, smiling as if mildly amused by her needless concern.

      "Even though I don't own one myself," he said, "I do know what a false leg looks like.  But why hide it?  You usually keep it on the other side."

      "Vanity," she replied without hesitation.  "At home, my bed's the other way round.  It's easier to deal with on my right side, but it looks so ugly, I didn't want it to be the first thing you saw as you walked in."

      Paul bent down and picked up the long limb.  On the end of it was one of the shoes Celia had worn the day before, with an opaque stocking secured above the knee by an elastic garter.  As he brought it round, Celia manoeuvred herself into a sitting position and put a similar stocking onto her left leg.

      "I don't normally dress with this much delicacy," she said, "but I usually don't have an audience.  I put my vest and knickers on earlier, so I'm fairly respectable."  She imparted this information with a coy blush.  "All the same, I don't think Florence would approve of your being here for the next bit."

      "Your mother is otherwise occupied," Paul reminded her, "in an equally personal world of her own.  All that matters is that you and I approve."

      "Which we do.  Bring that thing, so I can put it where it belongs."

      As Paul approached, Celia suddenly drooped her shoulders and gave a resigned sigh.  "Oh, you've no idea what a nuisance all this paraphernalia gets to be.  Oh, Paul."

      She sat on the edge of her bed, quite still, her head bowed as if in prayer.  Gently Paul lifted her face.  Tears now filled her eyes, and her expression was distorted with misery.

      He sat beside her.  "Come on, my love.  Worst part over."

      But she shook her head.  "For you, maybe.  It'll never be over for me.  Never, never, never.  I've got to face this each morning, and I'll go on doing this all my life every bloody day.  Oh Paul, I hate it so much.  I just want to be ordinary, like everyone else.  You never see girls in the streets like me, walking the way I do.  No-one spares a thought as to how good it feels to have two legs.  I'd find it such a joy, even for a moment, yet they take it all for granted.  I feel so horrible, half of my body thrown away;  no-one can understand.  No matter how well you get to know me, Paul, you'll never know what it's like for me, being like this.  You can't ever share it, can you?  Even when you're right beside me, I'll still be coping with this alone.  Oh, Paul - so often I wish I'd died along with Daddy and David."

      Paul held her with all the caring in his soul, overflowing with love and concern.

      "My precious darling, if you had died, think what those who know you would have lost.  What matters, my love, is that by some wonderful miracle you're still here, and with someone who loves you and wants always to look after you.  It's natural some mornings it may seem a hell of a rigmarole, and yes, you will sometimes get depressed.  But it won't be every day.  And I don't have to experience what you're going through in order to understand.  I'd let them take off my leg tomorrow if it meant saving your life, but sharing isn't about being identical.  I'll never know how it feels to wear a pretty dress and look beautiful, and you can't experience what it's like to shave a stubbly chin every morning or have a vocal range like a 'cello, but these differences don't set us apart.  They bring us closer together, and as the years go by we'll each become more and more a part of one another.  Sharing is about communicating, not about both of us always doing the same things.  And loving isn't about being perfect, it's about being sincere and - what's the word - altruistic?  I love you so much, I'm going to devote the rest of my life to making you happy.  And if you want us both to be happy, half of the responsibility falls on you.  Come on, show me what happens next."

      As he held the limb ready, she lifted the hem of her nightdress over it and drew it into place.

      "There!" she proclaimed.  "And thank you.  You're right.  Worst part is over.  Now your beloved Celia can stand up for yet another day on her own two feet."

      She held out two inviting arms and Paul pulled her up.

      "And beautiful she looks too.  May I kiss her?"

      "As long as you're careful.  You must realise I can't walk yet."

      "Silly girl, I don't want you to walk.  I want you to stand still for at least forty-five seconds."

      Paul's strong arms held her firmly yet sensitively.  Celia wasn't trembling any more.  She felt warm and secure, though Paul's own strength was rapidly draining hers as he leaned over her, tenderly caressing the natural softness of her face with his lips.  His chin felt smoother than she'd known it, baby-soft and lightly scented with something elusive.

      "Do you realise what a lucky guy I am to have met you?" he whispered.

      "Do you realise how much better I feel than I did five minutes ago?" she retorted with a radiant smile.

      "I know.  You've stopped trembling.  What do we do next?"

      "Get the wretched harness on, like a blooming carthorse."

      "I'm sure there's a 'bridal' joke in there somewhere," he grinned.  "But you know, they do supply other kinds of limb that don't need all this.  I'm sure if we made enquiries it could soon be a lot easier for you.  Things get better every year as technology improves.  Think how an early motorist would envy the automatic gearbox you were using yesterday."

      "Paul, I know what's available, but it's a question of money," Celia said.  "Today I'm still a carthorse and I need the bridle equipment, also that horrid corset over on the chair.  Look, stuff it, I don't care any more - you're here as my helper, so to hell with modesty!"

      Yielding to commonsense, Celia cast off her nightdress and stood before Paul in her underwear.  He handed her a long wide strap that went over her shoulder, and the corset which she fastened around her waist.

      As soon as she was able to walk, she went over to the wardrobe and selected a petticoat and a dress.  Within a minute she stood before him looking just like any other young lady, except that in Paul's eyes she was far more exciting to behold than anyone else he'd ever seen.

      "I wouldn't want you to think this girl doesn't usually wash first," she pointed out, "but today was different.  Well?  Still want to marry a freak, or would you rather give your lovely ring to somebody more normal?"

      Paul regarded her in silence while he considered how best to answer such a preposterous question.

      "Come over here," he commanded.  "Stand by the window."

      As Celia joined him at the window, he grabbed hold of her head and pressed her nose firmly onto the pane.

      "You see all those good folk down below," he said as people were hurrying to work.  "Some rich, some poor, some lonely, some hungry.  I feel sorry for every one of them because throughout their lives, every day, they have to forgo the thrill of putting their arms around you, my darling."

      Eventually Paul returned to his own room to pack his belongings, allowing Celia the freedom to do whatever else she needed before they both went downstairs, glowing with the love they felt for each other - Paul immensely proud of his adorable fiancée - Celia elated that the intimate occasion they'd just shared hadn't been at all the grim ordeal she'd been dreading for weeks.

      After breakfast Paul's first move was to make a phone call to his client, Mr. Samuelson, arranging to meet him on the site of his proposed new development.  Everything went smoothly, and by eleven o'clock they were free to pursue a more private quest.

      Paul kept trying to apologise for bringing Celia on an expedition that meant nothing to her, but she insisted its significance to Paul made it all the more interesting, allowing her for the first time to enjoy the supportive role which many wives play in their husbands' lives.

      Guided by information gleaned from Edward, they soon located the house where Betty Anderson had lived as a girl, an unprepossessing street of uniform dwellings built before the turn of the century.  As they stood beside the car, gazing wistfully up and down the road, Celia spotted a small sweet shop on the corner.

      "Could that be where your mother used to buy sweets?" she suggested.

      It wasn't far, so they walked slowly down to the corner.  A bell jangled as they pushed open the low door and stepped inside.

      It was a quaint, old-fashioned shop, smelling strongly of chocolate, mints and vanilla, a tiny arena almost claustrophobic in its abundance of childhood temptations.  Celia felt obliged to buy a couple of Mars bars and a quarter of Everton Mints, while Paul was soon telling the woman behind the counter of his personal interest in the premises.

      "I've been here since before the first war," she revealed, "but I can't say as I recall a Betty Anderson, I'm sorry.  I might have known her face right enough, but few of the children let on who they were, not unless they were trouble-makers; and then I'd soon make it my business to find out their names, I can tell you."

      "I'm sure Paul's mother wouldn't have drawn attention to herself like that," Celia said at once.

      "But it's wonderful to see where she used to come for her sweets," Paul went on.  "Can you tell me please whether there's a small primary school she might have gone to, not far from here?"

      "I expect you mean the one they've now converted for the library," she said, giving Paul brief directions.

      As they were emerging from the shop, Celia stumbled over a shallow step and was saved from another fall only by Paul's powerful grip on her arm.

      "Whoops!  Careful, my dear," called the shop-keeper, turning and anxiously watching their departure before returning the jar of Everton mints to the shelf behind her.

      "Are you okay?" Paul checked as they stepped into the sunlight.

      "I'm fine.  It's such a low doorway, I was more concerned about you bumping your head.  I wasn't looking down at my feet."

      "Let me know if it's too much leg work," he said, "but I would love it if we could follow the route my mother must have taken to school all those years ago.  Hopefully it's not far."

      "I'm okay," Celia assured him.  "And this is fun, it'll be worth it."

      They traced Betty Anderson's childhood footsteps to what was now the library, and inside Paul spoke to a man on the desk.

      "I've been here less than six years," he replied.  "But I'll tell you who would know the old school if you asked her."  He pointed to a frail lady, deeply engrossed in a book at a nearby table.  "Comes in every morning, she does, without fail.  Gets quite irate if whatever she's reading isn't still on the shelf the next day."

      Paul thanked him and went over to the small figure, unmistakably a retired school-mistress, probably in her late seventies, with wire-framed glasses lodged halfway down her nose and straight grey hair tied in a severe bun.

      "Excuse me for butting in," Paul said to her quietly, "but I'm told you've known this place for years.  This building was probably the school my mother attended some forty years ago."

      The woman peered suspiciously over her spectacles.

      "It's possible," she nodded.  "I taught here myself in those days, in this very class room.  We had three forms - one here, another in what's now the reference library, and a third in the children's section.  Your mother still lives locally, does she?"

      Paul explained, adding the name of Betty Anderson.

      "Anderson," she mumbled to herself.  "Betty, more properly Elizabeth I would imagine."  She closed her eyes, raising her face to the ceiling and stroking her chin.  "Elizabeth Anderson.  Yes, I certainly remember the name.  A quiet girl, I seem to recall.  Academic type, with an elder sister?  It's a long time ago.  Can't picture her face at the moment, but the name strikes a familiar chord.  We always used to read the register every morning to determine who was absent, and after reciting the same list for a full year, it's hardly surprising that it stays in your memory.  Mary!  That was the other one's name.  Mary Anderson.  Useless information to carry in one's head all these years, but yes, they were both definitely girls of mine.  And you say your mother died?  How sad!  Such a waste!  Well, it was pleasant meeting you and your wife.  I must go and find myself a good book to read.  So much rubbish printed nowadays, very regrettable.  Good day to you."

      Amused at being dismissed like children, they took their leave and explored the other parts of the library.

      "Do I look like a wife already?" Celia giggled as they began the long walk back to the car.

      "I don't know.  But if you're a sample of what wives look like, I definitely want one.  How's the leg holding out?"

      "So far, so good.  It's not that difficult, you know, as long as it behaves itself.  But I don't feel the ground beneath it.  That's why it's so easy to trip over."

      "Then I suggest you hold on to your future husband, because we need to keep an eye on the clock.  Samuelson has invited us for lunch."

      "Sounds good.  Where?"

      "Back in our hotel at twelve-thirty.  The prices are a bit steep, but with luck he may offer to pay."

      Celia was beginning to find the walk difficult, and felt very relieved on reaching the car.  They were about to drive off when a woman came running towards them from a nearby house.

      "I say, excuse me," she yelled, "are you the couple who were in the sweet shop a while ago, asking about Betty Anderson?"

      "Why, yes," said Celia excitedly.

      "I thought so.  I recognised you from what Nancy said about you catching you ankle on the step.  You're walking as though it's still quite painful."

      "Actually, no," replied Celia quietly.  "It's fine now, thank you."

      "Still, it's lucky I spotted you and put two and two together.  My mother came back from the shop not ten minutes ago, saying she heard about someone asking after Betty Anderson.  She remembers Betty, you see, and her family.  I don't suppose you've time to pop in for a brief chat about old times.  Mum does so enjoy having visitors."

      "Well, that is kind of you," Paul decided, glancing at his watch.  "Perhaps very briefly," he added, seeing Celia's nod of approval.  "We do have another appointment soon, but I'd be most interested to meet your mother, just for a few minutes."

      "Fine.  I'll pop the kettle on."

      "A second Florence," whispered Paul as they re-locked the car and followed the woman to her house.

      "My name's Doreen Farmer," she said, ushering them into the front parlour, "and this is my mother, Emily Forbes.  Here they are, Mum, the folks who was asking about Betty who used to live across the road."

      The old lady glared at the visitors, full of doubt until there dawned a smile of recognition.

      "Well, now.  Am I mistaken or do I see Betty's boy standing there?  You've certainly got her nose."

      Paul was suddenly so overcome that Celia spoke on his behalf.

      "Yes, Betty was Paul's mother.  She died in the war, along with the rest of his family, and we've come today to see for ourselves where she once lived.  Isn't it lucky we called at the sweet shop, Paul?  Oh, and my name's Celia."

      "Nancy from the shop was most concerned," Mrs. Farmer revealed.  "Says you tripped in the doorway and looked to be in some trouble walking up the road.  Still, I'm sure you'll soon feel better.  Sit down, both of you, and I'll go and make that pot of tea."

      "I lost my husband in the war," the old lady grumbled as her daughter left the room.  "I'd willingly have shot all them Germans myself."

      "Oh, no," Celia insisted.  "Please, I know one of them, and believe me he is a very nice man.  In fact we became engaged yesterday.  Look!"

      She thrust out her hand, seeking approval not only of the diamond ring, but for the man who had given it to her.  "After all," she added, "it wasn't his fault Betty Anderson decided to marry a German."

      Old Mrs. Forbes resumed her hostile stare.  "I hope he wasn't up there dropping them bombs on us during the blitz?"

      "Actually he was, and he didn't enjoy it one little bit, did you?"

      Paul shook his head.

      "But," she went on, "I happen to love him with all my heart, and that's what matters."

      The cold gaze soon melted into friendly reminiscence.

      "That's right, I remember now.  We were all shocked when Betty said she was going to live out in Germany, and her sister missed her more than anyone.  Funny enough, we had a card only recently, Doreen will know.  She lives up in Bedford these days."

      "You mean Mary?  You have her address?" Celia asked, glancing excitedly at Paul.

      "You'll have to ask Doreen.  I must say, he's a quiet one, your young man."

      "Not usually, but then it's not every day he meets people who actually knew his mother."

      "It's wonderful," Paul nodded slowly.  "I've never been to Bristol before.  All I expected to find was the house, and the area my mother grew up in, plus a certain hotel that was once rather special to her.  But today we've met the lady who taught her in primary school, and do you know, she even recalled my mother's name after forty years, can you believe that?  And now we've met you.  In a way it feels like bringing her to life again."

      "I'm sure it must.  And you're Betty's little Paul, my!  And what of Mary, your aunt, do you still keep in touch with her?"

      "Not since the war.  I still don't actually know where she lives."

      "We know it's Bedford.  And it's Mary Oliphant, who can forget that, poor soul?  Fancy being stuck with a name like that when you get married.  It was bad enough when my Doreen announced she wanted to marry a Farmer.  Muller!"  She pointed a triumphant finger at Paul, her face victorious as though she deserved a prize.  "That was Betty's name.  Mary wrote a month back with news of your grandfather, living on his own near Yarmouth.  I always said it's ironical, him dead set against his daughter marrying a German - she was under age, you see, and he wouldn't give his consent, not that I blame him - yet off he goes and lives as close as he can to Germany without leaving English soil.  That tells you something about his true feelings, doesn't it?  He must be well over eighty now, and I hope he's mellowed with the years.  Cantankerous blighter, he was then.  Never forgave Betty, particularly when that Hitler started making a nuisance of himself.  But your sister Mary keeps an eye on him."

      Doreen came in with a bone china tea service on a trolley.

      "Mary's his aunt," she yelled crossly, "not his sister, Mum, you're a generation out.  So, Paul, have you discovered anything new about your family or is my mother getting you totally confused?"

      Paul was still almost speechless.  "My grandfather?  I never even knew about him.  Did you say Great Yarmouth?"

      "Yes, poor old fellow.  I often picture him staring out to sea, pining for the daughter he disowned back in the twenties, like some character out of Wuthering Heights."  She poured the tea.  "Stubborn old fool, he was then.  Probably still is."

      "Your mother says you might have Aunt Mary's address," said Celia.  "Paul hasn't been able to trace her since he came to England."

      "Oh, she's fine, bless her.  Salt of the earth, is Mary.  It's old man Anderson who might be a bit touchy if you suddenly turned up out of the blue, especially since he's been taken ill.  Now, who takes sugar?"

      After tea and choc-o-lait biscuits, attention was soon focused on Celia's diamond ring.

      "Not only our engagement," she said, "but my mother has just remarried too - in fact, right now she's on her honeymoon in Paris."

      "And the kind gentleman who's taken her there," added Paul, "is actually my real father, so Celia and I are not only engaged, but we're also became a sort of step-brother and sister as from yesterday."

      The more he tried to explain things, the more confusing it became until Celia rescued him by pointing out she and Paul were already late for their next appointment.  As they were leaving she reminded Mrs. Farmer about Aunt Mary's address.

      "I can't lay my hands on it this minute, but write down your own address and I'll pass it on to Mary Oliphant.  It's not a name you can forget, is it - Oliphant?"

      Paul handed her one of his business cards, and after polite farewells they headed back to the hotel.

      "You see," said Paul, "if you hadn't been with me, I would have missed that vital piece of information.  Your little stumble in the doorway and the way you walk made all the difference."

      He meant it kindly, but Celia felt hurt.

      "And I thought I was walking so well today.  I was trying my hardest, Paul, to impress you.  What must I look like when I don't bother?"

      Paul planted a quick kiss on her cheek.

      "Still great to me.  But why didn't my mother ever mention her father?  Not once.  I think that's a terrible way for a man to treat his daughter.  Maybe I won't bother to visit him after all."

      "You will, Paul, because if you don't you'll never forgive yourself once it's too late.  Show him how relatives should behave, don't follow his bad example."

      "Maybe," he said.  "But will I be hated twice, both for being German and for being conceived out of wedlock?  Either way I haven't got very honourable references.  It won't be easy."

      "Neither were those personal revelations of mine this morning, but we triumphed over my silly fears."

      "Okay," he conceded.  "We'll go together and see him as soon as we can.  They said something though about him being ill.  Wouldn't that be ironic, if he died just before I finally caught up with him?"

      "I don't know about ironic, Paul.  It'd be very sad.  He must be a very lonely old man."

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