“But these men don’t know. How should they? They don’t agree amongst themselves.”
“Oh, my dear, that is a very wrong attitude. How long have ye felt like this?”
“Oh, all my life,” responded Miriam proudly.
“I’m very sorry, my dear.”
“Ever since I can remember. Always.”
There were ivory-backed brushes on the dressing-table. Miriam stared at them and let her eyes wander on to a framed picture of an agonised thorn-crowned head.
“Were you—have ye—eh—have ye been confirmed?”
“Oh yes.”
“Did ye discuss any of your difficulties with yer vicar?”
“Not I. I knew his mind too well. Had heard him preach for years. He would have run round my questions. He wasn’t capable of answering them. For instance, supposing I had asked him what I’ve always wanted to know. How can people, ordinary people, be expected to be like Christ, as they say, when they think Christ was supernatural? Of course, if he was supernatural it was easy enough for him to be as he was; if he was not supernatural, then there’s nothing in the whole thing.”