Even the Bursar, who had voted for the changes and for the inclusion of women, had been appalled at the suggestion that a new block be built for them behind the Chapel. 'Of course I support the proposal in principle,' he said, 'but I must point out that it is totally impractical. Such a building programme would cost millions. Where do you suppose we could find the funds?'

'Presumably in the same way as other colleges go about these things,' said Professor Pawley, Porterhouse's most eminent scholar, an astronomer whose life's work had been concentrated on an exceedingly remote nebula known as Pawley One. 'Other Bursars have recourse to banks and commercial loans. It is surely not beyond our intellectual resources to make use of similar means?'

The Bursar had swallowed the insult and had taken his revenge. 'It is not our intellectual resources which are in question, but our practical ones. We don't have any means of obtaining loans. The cost of rebuilding the Bull Tower proved far higher than had been foreseen by those on the Restoration Committee'-Professor Pawley had been its chairman-'who failed to distinguish the difference between the cost of modern building materials such as bricks and the vastly more expensive price required to replace extremely old materials. In the circumstances, if anyone can explain how I can obtain any additional funding, I shall of course be most grateful.'

In the face of this unanswerable question the new building never materialized and while women had come to Porterhouse their numbers were negligible. And since the Senior Tutor was in charge of admissions as well as the Boat Club, those women who were admitted had certain characteristics that distinguished them from the girls in other colleges. Even the Chaplain, always a broad-minded man, had complained.

'I know the world is a very different place these days and I try to keep up with the times,' he had said over the kidney ragout at dinner one night, 'but I draw the line at young men wearing lipstick in public places. There is some man on my staircase who is distinctly odd. I found a tube of lipstick in the lavatory this morning and whatever aftershave lotion he uses is most disturbing.'

'I don't suppose there is any point in explaining,' said the Praelector, keeping his voice down. The Chaplain was deaf, but it was as well to take precautions.

'Definitely not,' said the Dean. 'If he ever found out their real sex, Heaven alone knows what he might get up to.'

'I suppose we must be grateful he's not interested in boys. A lot of the dons in other colleges are, I'm told.'

'It's amazing he can get up to anything at all at his age,' said the Senior Tutor a trifle mournfully. 'Still, it was obviously a great mistake to put any women on his staircase.' They looked accusingly at the Bursar who was in charge of room allocations.

'I only put two there,' he protested, 'and I made sure they passed the Test.'

'The Test? What is the Test? Apart from matches and rivers and things,' enquired the Praelector.

The Bursar hesitated. Dr Buscott and some of the younger Fellows were down the table and he had no desire to be linked in their minds with the 'Old Guard'. 'It is an exceedingly outmoded way of ensuring-' he began, but the Dean seized his opportunity.

'The Bursar means that he has to examine the creatures before employing them as bedmakers to make absolutely certain that they are sufficiently repulsive to stifle the sexual urges in even the most desperately frustrated undergraduate,' he explained in a loud voice. 'That is why it is called the Bedder Test. The aim is to keep them out of the beds they are paid to make.'

In the silence that followed, Dr Buscott at the far end of the table was heard to wonder aloud what century some people thought they were living in. The Senior Fellows chose to ignore him. Dr Buscott held a post in the University and that, as the Dean had said, made him no sort of Porterhouse man.

'Not that the system always works, if memory serves me,' said the Praelector finally. 'That young man who blew up the Bull Tower with gas-filled condoms was found to have been fornicating with his bedder at the very moment of the explosion. Name of Zipser, I seem to remember. Now what was the bedmaker's name?'

'Biggs. Mrs Biggs,' the Chaplain shouted suddenly. 'Big Bertha Biggs I remember they called her. Wore tight boots and a shiny red mackintosh. A splendid woman. Most ample. I shall never forget the way she smiled.'

'I doubt if anyone else will either, come to that,' said the Dean grimly, 'though whether she was smiling when the Tower exploded we will, I am glad to say, never know. Not that I am in the least interested. Any sexual deviant, and a young man who could find Mrs Biggs in any way desirable must have been a pervert, deserves to die. It was the other consequences I found deplorable. Quite apart from the enormous cost of the restoration, it gave that damned Master, the late Sir Godber Evans, the chance to exert his authority over the College Council. The only good thing to come out of the whole ghastly affair was that he died of drink not long afterwards.'

'I always understood that he had an accident and fell over,' Dr Buscott intervened from the far end of the table.

'He would not have fallen had he not been drunk.'

But Dr Buscott hadn't finished. 'And saddled the College with a Head Porter as Master. I have never been able to understand why he named Skullion. If, of course, he did.'

The Senior Tutor almost rose from his chair and the Dean's face was suffused. 'If you are accusing us of lying…' the Senior Tutor began but the Chaplain provided a diversion.

'Dear Skullion,' he shouted. 'I saw him sitting in the garden the other day wearing his bowler hat. He seemed to be much better and certainly much happier.'

'Did he have his bottle with him?' asked the Praelector.

'His bottle? I didn't notice. He used to have a bag, you know. It was on the end of a pipe and sometimes would slip out. I once stepped on it, quite by accident of course, and the poor fellow-'

'For God's sake, shut up, '-snarled the Senior Tutor and pushed his plate away. 'I really don't see why we should discuss Skullion's bladder problems over the kidney ragout.'

'I entirely agree,' said the Dean. 'It is a most unsavoury topic, and not at all suitable at table.'

'Savoury now?' the Chaplain shouted. 'But I haven't even finished my main course.'

'I think if someone would switch off his hearing aid…' said the Praelector.

The Dean's first port of call in his search for a new Master was Coft Castle, the training stables belonging to the President of the Old Porterhouse Society, General Sir Cathcart D'Eath, to consult him.

'Seen this coming,' said the General. 'Bad show having to have a Porter as Master. Worse still a chap in a wheelchair. Makes a bad impression in a sporting college, don't you know.'

'Quite,' said the Dean, who didn't share the General's view of Porterhouse. For him the College was the repository of traditional values. 'The fact of the matter is that our finances are in a dreadful state. We need a very rich Master to put us in the black again. Can you think of anyone who might be suitable?'

'Daresay you could try Gutterby down in Hampshire. Good family and plenty of money,' the General said. 'Things haven't been good for anyone lately, though. Difficult. Difficult.'

They sat in Sir Cathcart's library late into the night. From inside the cover of Sir Walter Scott's _Rob Roy_ the General had produced a bottle of Glenmorangie.

The Dean on the other hand was drinking Armagnac which came from _The Three Musketeers._ It put an idea into Sir Cathcart's head.

'I don't suppose you've considered Philippe Fitzherbert,' he said. 'Old Fitzherbert's boy. Said to be extremely rich. Got a place down in Gascony and lives there. Odd chap. French mother.'