One of the reasons I took on as many housemaiding jobs as I could was that it enabled me to be let out of the ward for the emptying of slops, and this afforded a good opportunity for seeing and occasionally communicating with ordinary prisoners. They seemed to come and go pretty quickly from our floor of the hospital, and I seldom saw any of them more than twice or three times. The prisoner’s dress has a wonderfully disguising and unifying power, and it was a never-ending interest to try quickly to diagnose the type of prisoner, so as to make the most of any possible communication by whispers. Washing up was done in the bath-room cell and the door left open. Sometimes the handling of plates would prove that such work was unaccustomed and uncongenial, others were skilled but sullen and grudging in their service, some again would be keen and willing and showed the pathetic eagerness of a newcomer to inquire as to rules, to be friendly with her fellow-prisoners, to court the approval or advice of the wardresses. But such liveliness was not the fashion and was always repressed. One could watch the light and spirit of these human beings wane, as a lamp wanes for want of oil. Sometimes many days would go by without opportunity for the smallest communication with ordinary prisoners, then again there would be occasions of unexpected good luck. Once when emptying a basin at the sink a little woman, newcomer, who was dusting the top of the walls and fittings with a long-handled broom, came close up behind me. In prison one seems to develop eyes at the back of one’s head and that kind of cunning which is engendered in human beings and animals who are much restricted. I realised that no official eye for the moment was upon us. The splashing of the tap covered the sound of our low voices; without looking round, without changing expression or gesture so as not to arouse suspicion, the following conversation took place. _Self_: “The dust collects quickly here, doesn’t it?” _Prisoner_: “Yes, how long have you got?” (The invariable first question for all prisoners.) _Self_: “A month.” _Prisoner_: “I’m on remand for a week.” _Self_: “What is it for?” _Prisoner_: “Attempted suicide.” _Self_: “Poor you. Why did you do that?” _Prisoner_: “Well, I had a pot of trouble and I thought it was the quickest way out.” _Self_: “I remember feeling like that too, once, but I don’t now.” _Prisoner_: “And nor do I now, life’s sweet while it lasts, isn’t it?” This with a beaming smile. We had meanwhile exchanged furtive glances at each other. She had a round, rose-like face, with a look of abundant health and kindliness. Apparently, the “pot of trouble” had been of no long duration. _Self_: “It seems odd to send people here for suicide?” _Prisoner_ (eagerly): “Yes, it does indeed. It seems a shame.” Then, with some hesitation, “What are you in for?” _Self_: “Suffragette.” She looked at me wonderingly, as if she supposed this to be the technical term for some form of vice unknown to her, though her sympathy and respect were not withdrawn. We were, however, interrupted at this point and I was summoned to return with my much scrubbed basin to the ward. I never saw the little rose-like face again.