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and no longer according to
     the vows of this Abbey.’
    ‘Gertrude fears neither Pope nor man,’ says Alexandra. ‘Call Sister
     Winifrede on the walkie-talkie. Tell Winifrede to come to the Abbess’s
     parlour.’ She leads the way into the parlour which is still furnished in the style
     of the late Hildegarde, who had a passion for autumn tints. The carpet is figured with
     fallen leaves and the wallpaper is a faded glow of browns and golds. The three nuns
     recline in the greenish-brown plush chairs while Winifrede is summoned and presently
     appears before them, newly startled out of a snooze.
    Alexandra, so soon to be clothed in white, fetches from her black pocket a bunch of keys.
     ‘Winifrede, ’ she says, indicating one of the keys, ‘this is the key
     to the private library. Open it up and bring me Machiavelli’s
Art of
     War.’
Alexandra then selects another key. ‘And while you are about
     it go to my cell and open my locked cupboard. In it you will find my jar of
pâté,
some fine little biscuits and a bottle of my
Le
     Corton,
1959. Prepare a tray for four and bring it here with the
     book.’
    ‘Alexandra,’ whines Winifrede, ‘why not get one of the kitchen nuns to
     prepare the tray?’
    ‘On no account,’ says Alexandra. ‘Do it yourself. You’ll get your
     share.’
    ‘The kitchen nuns are so ugly,’ says Mildred.
    ‘And such common little beasts,’ says Walburga.
    ‘Very true,’ says Winifrede agreeably and departs on her errands.
    ‘Winifrede is useful,’ says Alexandra.
    ‘We can always make use of Winifrede,’ says Mildred.
    ‘Highly dependable,’ says Walburga. ‘She’ll come in useful when
     we really come to grips with Felicity.’
    ‘That, of course, is for you two nuns to decide,’ Alexandra says. ‘As a
     highly obvious candidate for the Abbey of Crewe, plainly I can take no personal part in
     whatever you have in mind.’
    ‘Really, I have nothing in mind,’ Mildred says.
    ‘Nor I,’ says Walburga. ‘Not as yet.’
    ‘It will come to you,’ says Alexandra. ‘I see no reason why I
     shouldn’t start now arranging for this room to be newly done over. A green theme,
     I think. I’m attached to green. An idea of how to proceed against Felicity will
     occur to you quite soon, I imagine, tomorrow or the day after, between the hours of
     Matins and Lauds, or Lauds and Prime, or Prime and Terce, or, maybe, between Terce and
     Sext, Sext and None, None and Vespers, or between Vespers and Compline.’ Winifrede
     returns, tall and handsome as a transvested butler, bearing a tray laden with their
     private snack for four. She sets it on a table and, fishing into her pocket, produces a
     book and Alexandra’s keys which she hands over.
    They are seated at the table, and the wine is poured. ‘Shall I say grace?’
     says fair-faced, round-eyed Winifrede, although the others have already started to scoop
     daintily at the
pâté
with their pearl-handled knives. ‘Oh,
     it isn’t necessary,’ says Alexandra, spreading the
pâté
on her fine wafer, ‘there’s nothing wrong with
my
food.’
    Winifrede, with her eyes like two capital Os, leans forward and confides,
     ‘I’ve seen the print of that tele-photo of Felicity with Thomas this
     morning.’
    ‘I, too,’ says Walburga. ‘I don’t understand these fresh-air
     fiends when the traditional linen cupboard is so much better heated and
     equipped.’
    Alexandra says, ‘I glanced at the negative. Since when my spirit is impure. It does
     not become them. Only the beautiful should make love when they are likely to be
     photographed.’
    ‘The double monasteries of the olden days were so discreet and so well
     ordered,’ Mildred says, wistfully.
    ‘I intend to reinstate the system,’ says Alexandra. ‘If I am the Abbess
     of Crewe for a few years I shall see to it that each nun has her own private chaplain,
     as in the days of my ancestor St Gilbert, Rector of Sempringham. The nuns will have each
     her