“But⁠—but I’ve got a chance of work. I may lose it if I’m kept here.” Already I could detect it in my own voice that rising note that speaks a nervous excitation. I realised that if I did not keep cool I must arouse official antagonism. Emotional display is terribly contagious in any form of institutional life, and at the first sign the official mind takes fright and closes down on the unfortunate pleader.

“The superintendent will be up about ten,” she said, “meanwhile you get on with some work.”

She motioned me towards Kitty, and obediently I went and asked what I was to do. Kitty at that moment was cleaning the grate, heaving up great handfuls of ashes⁠—they are not lavish with implements in the House⁠—to a running commentary on life in general and her own adventures in particular.

“There’s nothing particular you can do,” she answered, “just you look busy, that’s what matters.”