"It's a very good imitation, whoever you are."
"It's Littlejohn," suggested the placid voice. "She does imitations."
Miss Pym fell back on a defeated silence.
There was the hurr-oosh of a body lifted suddenly from the water, the spat of a wet foot placed firmly on the edge of the bath, eight wet finger-tips appeared on the edge of the partition, and a face peered over it. It was a long pale face, like an amiable pony's, with the straight fair hair above it screwed up into a knob with a hasty hairpin. An oddly endearing face. Even in that crowded moment, Lucy understood suddenly how Dakers had managed to reach her final term at Leys without being knocked on the head by exasperated colleagues.
First horror, then a wild flush together with a dawning amusement, invaded the face above the partition. It disappeared abruptly. A despairing wail rose from beyond.
"Oh, Miss Pym! Oh, dear Miss Pym! I do apologise. I abase myself. It didn't occur to me even to think it might be you-"
Lucy could not help feeling that she was enjoying her own enormity.
"I hope you're not offended. Not terribly, I mean. We are so used to people's skins that-that-"
Lucy understood that she was trying to say that the gaffe was less important in these surroundings than it would have been elsewhere, and since she herself had been decently soaping a big toe at the operative moment, she had no feelings on the subject. She said kindly that it was entirely her own fault for occupying a student's bathroom, and that Miss Dakers was not to worry about it for a moment.
"You know my name?"