‘If I respond to that, you mightn’t talk to me again,’ he said.

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’ll think the worst of me.’

‘Oh.’ She couldn’t look at him. ‘I’m sure I wouldn’t.’ But she understood his meaning – the rumours had already passed her way, and now she felt somehow complicit in the gossip, angry at herself for leading him into the topic.

It had been an act of spite – that’s how she’d come to hear of it. There was a fellow on the table next to hers in studio, Bill Embry, who’d asked her early in the term if she’d go with him to the theatre, and he’d done so rather pushily; when she’d declined, his face had purpled but he’d said, ‘Oh, shame,’ and edged away. Then, turning with a look of bitterness, he’d said, ‘Fair warning, though, Miss Greaves. I wouldn’t get too sweet on Mayhood. I can see the way you are with him. He draws well, there’s no doubt, but no one’s going to hire him if he ever qualifies. The chap’s a thief. They put him in a borstal, and he’s not been out that long. It’s only fair that you should know. I have it all on good authority.’ Right away, she’d told Bill Embry that if he concentrated less on slandering his fellow students and more on learning how to make his sketches look as though an adult drew them, he’d be so much better off – at least, that’s what she’d tried to say by scowling back at him. What she’d really said was, ‘Don’t presume to tell me whose affections I can favour, Mr Embry. I’m sure you’ll find somebody else to go with you.’ That had spared the akwardness next time they saw each other. But she’d known the lint in Arthur’s pockets had more goodness than Bill Embry would ever gather in his lifetime.

‘I don’t want to put you off me,’ Arthur said now. ‘Seeing as we’re getting on so well. Besides, there are a million other things to talk about.’

She was content to let him change the subject. ‘Such as what?’

‘There’s Martins bank, for one. I feel as though I ought to have a dinner jacket on when I go in there. I’ll just drop you at the door, if that’s all right.’

*

Of all the basic aspects of his training, Arthur was alarmed to find he struggled most with lettering. He’d practised through the Christmas break, copying the Roman capitals, half-uncials and small italics from the Johnston book and Graily Hewitt, trying to master the techniques. His basic handwriting was messy, even juvenile, so when it came to lettering he felt as though he’d gone right back to infant school to learn his alphabet with chalk and slate. Legibility was one thing, personality was another. He wanted to establish a distinctive style to complement his drawings. It frustrated him that something so routine, so incidental to his work, should occupy so much of his attention. When he saw how quickly other students in his group had learned the skill – those grammar-schooled, smart-collared boys with their safe, competent designs so ably lettered in the bottom margins – well, it was a reminder of how far behind the line he’d started in the race with them. And it was a type of race. For every ten men in his group, there was perhaps one opportunity for an assistantship at a good firm, and no one else would have to give an explanation for a two-year stretch at Feltham Institution in his application letter.