“I do vow, this world is full of fools!” said she, as we went along the corridor. “We shall have Sister Parnel, next, protesting that she knows not how much oats be a bushel, and denying to rub in the salt to a bacon, lest it should make her fingers sore. And ’tis always those who have small reason that make fusses like this. A King’s daughter, when she takes the veil, looks for no different treatment from the rest; but a squire’s daughter expects to have a round dozen of her Sisters told off to wait upon her.—Sister Egeline, feathers for stuffing are three-farthings a pound; prithee strew not all the floors therewith. (Sister Egeline had dropped no more than one; but my Lady is lynx-eyed.) Truly, it was time some one took this house in hand. Had my sometime Lady ruled it another twelvemonth, there would have been never a bit of discipline left. There’s none so much now. Sister Roberga had better look out. If she gives me many more pert answers, she’ll find herself barred into the penitential cell on bread and water.”
By this time we had reached the kitchen. Sister Philippa was just coming out of it, carrying one hand covered with her veil. My Lady came to a sudden halt.
“What have you there, Sister?”
Sister Philippa looked red and confused.
“I have cut my finger,” she said.
My Lady’s hand went into her pocket.
“Hold it forth,” said she, “and I will bind it up. I always carry linen and emplasture.”
Sister Philippa made half a dozen lame excuses, but at last held out her left hand, having (if I saw rightly) passed something into the other, under cover of her veil.
“Which finger?” said my Lady, who to my surprise took no notice of her action.
“This,” said Sister Philippa, holding out the first.