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Daphne picked up a small bristle brush and bent down to drench it in the pail of water beneath the table. She straightened. “What other reason is there to marry?” she asked, moving the brush over the tiny tiles to remove the remaining grime from the grout lines.
    â€œChildren are an excellent reason.”
    â€œReally?” Daphne paused, unable to resist giving the viscountess a look of feigned astonishment over the rims of her spectacles. “I did not realize one needed vows and a ceremony for the actual children to begin arriving.”
    The other woman gave a smothered half laugh. “A wicked observation, Miss Wade. In society, such a statement would make people think you quite shocking.”
    â€œWicked perhaps, but also sensible. If children are the goal, then love between the partners would ensure plenty of them.”
    To Daphne’s surprise, the other woman’s smilefaded and her expression became almost melancholy. “Yes, I suppose it would,” she agreed, then shook her head. “But let us continue our discussion of marriage. Aside from children, there are other practical considerations, do you not agree? Family alliances. The accumulation of wealth. To gain greater position and power in society. There are many people who feel those are more important than love when choosing a marriage partner.”
    â€œWhat purpose do those considerations serve if one is unhappy? I would think that to marry without love would bring a lifetime of pain.”
    The countess drew in her breath so sharply that Daphne was startled. She once again looked up. “Lady Hammond, are you unwell?”
    â€œNo, no.” The other woman lifted her hand in a gesture of reassurance. “I am quite well. It is just that love itself can bring its own measure of pain, Miss Wade.”
    Daphne paused, her fingers tightening around the brush in her hand as she looked into the other woman’s eyes. “Yes,” she admitted, “I suppose it can, if one is not loved in return. But surely the joy of the experience is worth the pain.”
    â€œIs it?” Lady Hammond murmured, and her lips twisted into an ironic sort of smile. Her gaze moved past Daphne as if she were staring into a far distant landscape. “I wonder.”
    Daphne felt a sudden empathy for the other woman. “So do I,” she admitted, “but it did sound quite noble and poetic when I said it.”
    The two women looked at each other and both of them began to laugh.
    â€œI knew the moment we met I was going to like you,” the viscountess exclaimed, still laughing. “We must become friends.”
    Daphne smiled back, both pleased and touched by the suggestion. “I should like that, Lady Hammond. I have not had much opportunity to make friends, having moved about so much in my life.”
    â€œYou must call me Viola, and I shall call you Daphne. Flower names, you see? We already have something in common.”
    â€œBut not a love for clay pots.”
    â€œNo. In that respect, you are much more like Anthony, though what the two of you find so fascinating about shards of pottery baffles me.”
    â€œWell, it is the pottery that truly reveals the history of a site—”
    â€œNo, no!” Viola held up one hand, stopping her. “I have heard this all before. I was running away from it a few moments ago, remember?”
    â€œSo you were. Very well, I shall not impose a discussion of Samarian ware, cream ware, and buff ware upon you.”
    â€œGood, for I should much rather hear about you. Sir Edward told me you were born on the island of Crete?”
    Daphne could not help being flattered. She was so seldom the object of anyone’s attention. “Yes. My father was excavating at Knossos. I do not remember much about the excavation. I do remember how hot and dry it was. My mother oftendescribed to me the meadows and woods of England. It sounded like paradise to