Mr Dean came up to the Convent in the rain, wanting to see Sister Clodagh. Sister Ruth answered the bell and asked him to wait in the reception room, looking half away from him as she always did.

‘I’ll wait here,’ he said. I’ve something with me for Sister Clodagh”

With a startled glance she saw, beyond him, a young hill-girl standing in the porch, her hands on the handle of her umbrella, a tin trunk beside her on the ground.

‘I’Il tell her. Is that –’ said Sister Ruth and went away to find Sister Clodagh.

She was in the school-room with Sister Honey who had run in to take charge while Sister Ruth answered the bell.

‘Don’t you think Om’s mother should sew his trousers up?’ asked. Sister Honey, looking at him tenderly. “Do you think it’s quite nice?’

A month ago Sister Clodagh would have agreed with energy and precision that Om’s trousers should certainly be sewn up, but now she murmured vaguely: ‘He’s only a baby,’ and fixed her eyes on the enticing shape in the split of his seat.

‘It’s a good idea really,’ she said, ‘and very clean?’

With difficulty she detached her gaze and went to Mr Dean.

‘I’ve brought you this girl,’ he explained. ‘Her name is Hasanphul, but we call her Kanchi. She’s seventeen and it’s time she was married, but she’s an orphan and as you see she’s too pretty. Say Salaam to the Lemini, Kanchi.’

The girl salaamed. She was like a basket of fruit, thought Sister Clodagh, piled high and luscious and ready to eat. Though she looked shyly down, there was something steady and unabashed about her; the fruit was there to be eaten, she did not mean to let it rot.