you?

FAITH. [With a slow smile] Yes. [She gives a sudden little twirl, and
puts her hands up to her hair before the mirror] My afternoon to-day.
It's fine in the streets, after-being in there.

BLY. Well! Don't follow your instincts too much, that's all! I must
get on to the drawin' room now. There's a shower comin'.
[Philosophically] It's 'ardly worth while to do these winders. You
clean 'em, and they're dirty again in no time. It's like life. And
people talk o' progress. What a sooperstition! Of course there ain't
progress; it's a world-without-end affair. You've got to make up your
mind to it, and not be discouraged. All this depression comes from
'avin' 'igh 'opes. 'Ave low 'opes, and you'll be all right.

He takes up his pail and cloths and moves out through the windows.

FAITH puts another chocolate into her mouth, and taking up a flower,
twirls round with it held to her nose, and looks at herself in the
glass over the hearth. She is still looking at herself when she
sees in the mirror a reflection of JOHNNY, who has come in. Her
face grows just a little scared, as if she had caught the eye of a
warder peering through the peep-hole of her cell door, then brazens,
and slowly sweetens as she turns round to him.

JOHNNY. Sorry! [He has a pipe in his hand and wears a Norfolk jacket]
Fond of flowers?

FAITH. Yes. [She puts back the flower] Ever so!

JOHNNY. Stick to it. Put it in your hair; it'll look jolly. How do you
like it here?

FAITH. It's quiet.

JOHNNY. Ha! I wonder if you've got the feeling I have. We've both had
hell, you know; I had three years of it, out there, and you've had three
years of it here. The feeling that you can't catch up; can't live fast
enough to get even.

FAITH nods.

Nothing's big enough; nothing's worth while enough--is it?

FAITH. I don't know. I know I'd like to bite. She draws her lips back.

JOHNNY. Ah! Tell me all about your beastly time; it'll do you good.
You and I are different from anybody else in this house. We've lived
they've just vegetated. Come on; tell me!

FAITH, who up to now has looked on him as a young male, stares at
him for the first time without sex in her eyes.

FAITH. I can't. We didn't talk in there, you know.

JOHNNY. Were you fond of the chap who--?

FAITH. No. Yes. I suppose I was--once.

JOHNNY. He must have been rather a swine.

FAITH. He