The child came in, a tall Jamaican child with spectacles, eleven years of age.

‘Iniquity unto iniquity,’ murmured Miss Arbuthnot, not asking her visitor to sit down, nor sitting down herself. ‘You’ve done bad things, my dear. You delight in causing trouble to those who are kindest to you.’

‘You see, Miss Arbuthnot – ’ began the child.

‘It isn’t right, my dear. No more is it right to go into my bedroom and break my silver-backed brushes. It isn’t easy to break a brush, but you, it seems, have managed to do so. Other things are missing, a comb and pair of scissors.  My very favourite looking-glass has had its glass smashed. An ivory shoe-horn – a family heirloom, my dear – has been discovered at the bottom of Matron’s lavatory.’

The child was silent. The matron, starched and white, threw out her bosom and rubbed the palms of her hands on her overall. Miss Arbuthnot said:

‘I cannot ever use that shoe-horn again, my dear. You understand that?’

Again the child did not speak. Miss Arbuthnot said:

‘I could not use a shoe-horn that had been fished out of a lavatory. Matron’s lavatory or anybody else’s.’

The matron drew a short breath through her nose, snappishly enough to turn the intake into a sniff. Her eyes were on the child’s face. Miss Arbuthnot said:

‘I would think of your action, my dear, every time I put my shoes on. I’d think of you, dear, dropping the shoe-horn down and attempting to flush away your unkindness.’

There was another silence in the room. The matron appeared about to break it, but Miss Arbuthnot gestured at her delicately.

‘I feel alone,’ the child said suddenly.

The matron heard the irrelevant statement and thought to herself that it was poppycock, since the orphanage contained thirty-seven girls. Miss Arbuthnot said:

‘My dear little one, we are all alone. And yet, as we know, we are not.’

‘My parents were burnt alive, Miss Arbuthnot.’