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which has furnished hostesses and helpmeets for so many of our better politicians and captains of industry. If there was one flaw with the type—it might have something to do, Ritter thought, with too close inbreeding—it was a tendency toward alcoholism. Generally, they remained for twenty or more years decorative and useful before this tendency made it necessary to replace them, and even afterward most of them remained tractable. One mustn’t blame the poor creatures, as Elaine seemed to be doing. It was just something in the blood; alcohol, usually.
    Now, having successfully accused Elaine of sin—the girl’s stricken look told him his statement had struck home—Ritter pressed his advantage, or his luck, saying sadly, “The sharpest thorns are in your own roses.”
    She gave him a look of scorn. “The rose grows from a dungheap,” she said.
    If there was one thing this troubling child had inherited from her father it was a knack for aphorism, and yet somehow she had never yet come up with one he felt worthy of memorialization in his commonplace book. “Elaine,” he said.
    â€œSISTER MARY GRACE!”
    â€œELAINE! When are you going to give up this nonsense? ”
    â€œ Never! ”
    â€œThen you’ll never leave this apartment,” he said, calmer.
    She was calmer, too. “Oh, yes, I will,” she said.
    Her assurance was so total that he had to smile at her, and say, “Do you expect God Himself to come down from Heaven and escort you back to that miserable primitive convent down there?”
    â€œIn a way,” she said.
    â€œHe’s taking His own sweet time at it, isn’t He?”
    She folded her arms. Her look was defiant, smug, infuriating; not at all what Frank Ritter would call holy. “We’ll see,” she said.

11
    â€œYou didn’t tell me they kept birds,” May said.
    Dortmunder listened to the twittering from within the low stone convent building. “I didn’t see them last time.”
    â€œWell, that must be nice for them,” May said. “Birds make a nice pet.”
    Dortmunder pulled the thick old rope hanging beside the heavy wooden door and from far inside came a deep bong-bong . At once, the twittering stopped, then started again, redoubled. A moment went by, and then the door was drawn open by a buxom smiling older nun in full fig; not one of the ones Dortmunder had met his earlier time here. “Uh,” he said, “I’m—”
    â€œOh!” the nun said, delighted, and clapped her hands together. “You’re John! Yes, of course, I remember you in the chapel, you might remember I helped to hold the ladder, I’m Sister Mary Amity, I was almost the second person to see you, just after Sister Mary Serene, we were both in the chapel in contemplation, and she looked up, and then I looked up, and oh, I suppose this is your wife, do come in both of you, we’re just delighted to have visitors, it doesn’t happen very often, isn’t it lucky it’s just when we’re permitted to speak, be careful of the stone floor, it is uneven, I’ll go get Mother Mary Forcible, what was it I wanted to say? Never mind, it will come to me. Don’t go ‘way now.”
    â€œWe won’t,” Dortmunder promised, and Sister Mary Amity bustled away down the long colonnade.
    â€œWell!” May said.
    â€œIt’s their talk time,” Dortmunder said.
    â€œI guess so.”
    The twittering, now that they were inside the wall, wasn’t birds after all but conversation, lots and lots of conversation, much of it taking place in the open courtyard just to their left. The building itself was L-shaped, built away from the street corner, with the open section partly slate-floored and partly turned into flower beds, at the moment bursting with spring blooms. High stone walls separated this yard from the two street sides, while arched walkways or colonnades