‘Well, sir, if the shadows are the main point of the exercise,’ he said, ‘it seems to me she’s done them perfectly. It’s just that she’s forgotten to include a doorway. You said that if we drew a set of steps, they had to lead up to a doorway. So, Miss Greaves has gone a bit off-brief, that’s all.’

‘Glad to know that somebody was listening,’ Dawson said.

She felt impossibly small. Her teeth hurt for some reason. How could she have overlooked that basic piece of information?

‘But the shadows are the most important thing,’ Arthur carried on. ‘And she got those right.’

‘Your gallantry is noted, Mayhood. And I’m sure Miss Greaves appreciates it.’ Everybody laughed. She flushed, and so did Arthur. ‘But I’m afraid the brief is unequivocal – you’ll be assessed by it as long as you are here, and you’ll be held to it as long as you’re out there. If you learn bad habits now, you’ll have them for the rest of your careers.’

She had to start again.

Leaving studio that afternoon, deflated, she found Arthur on the entrance steps. Gone was the serge suit of his first days, when he’d been trying not to disrespect the school by dressing too informally. Now he wore a shirt and pullover with flannel trousers like the others, with a docker’s overcoat and the old hat, which he appeared to favour carrying like some exotic pet. He flicked ash off his cigarette. ‘Miss Greaves, just a mo,’ he called, and stubbed it out upon the railing. As she went past, he vaulted down from the top step with his portfolio above his head as parachute. He landed but a yard away from her, his shoes smacking the flagstones. ‘I was hoping I could walk with you,’ he said.

‘Where to?’

‘Wherever it is you’re going.’ His eyes were halfway down the street already, where the momentary calmness of the square gave way to real life: soot-blacked buildings, wagons at the junction loaded up with crates, women slogging into town with cases full of things to sell or fix or dump. ‘I wanted to apologize,’ he said, ‘if I embarrassed you in there. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. But I’ve known too many Mr Dawsons in my time to let him get away with it.’

‘He’s just a pedant,’ she said. ‘No harm done.’ The sting of the humiliation hadn’t faded, though, and it was sure to last the year.

‘Pedantry lives right next door to misery, if you ask me.’ He gestured down the road with his portfolio. ‘Shall we walk?’

‘I’ve got something to do.’

‘I’ll help.’

‘You’re going to help me pay a cheque into the bank? I’ll manage, thank you.’

‘Which bank?’

‘Martins,’ she said, ‘not that you have any business knowing.’

‘Oh, that’s my bank. The closest branch is Brunswick Street. I’ll show you the best way to go.’

‘What makes you think I don’t know where I’m going?’

‘Miss Greaves –’