“Good evening,” I said, politely. “May I have a bed?”

“Stay where you are,” she repeated, and I went back to the little pen at the top of the stairs, surprised and hurt. I realised for the first time since I began my journey, how demoralising it is to be sized up on your external appearance, and the tears were very near my eyes when I asked again for a bed, and announced that I could pay for it.

The statement did not impress the Sister, and under her eyes my shabbiness increased. Draggled coat and sodden hat grew visibly more and more demoralised.

“Please stay there.” The frying fork marked out the frontier. Then there followed a searching cross-examination, which I bore patiently and politely, under the belief that when the interrogatory was finished I should be allowed a bed. As I discovered later, however, my impression was wrong.

“What is your name and occupation?”

“I am out of work,” I said.