Her voice was a very much shocked one, and Quentillian replied only by a gesture. Val kept silence, and presently he glanced at her face and saw that tears stood in her eyes.
He was half touched and half impatient.
“Surely that point of view isn’t altogether a new one to you. You must know that the trend of modern thought is all very much in that direction.”
“I suppose I knew it, certainly. But it has never come very near me before. Father has sheltered us from everything, in the most beautiful way.”
She spoke very simply and sincerely.
The time-honoured cliché as to never wishing to deprive anyone of his or her faith—Valeria least of all—hung unspoken on his lips.
If the spiritual intimacy of which Owen Quentillian was beginning to dream should come to pass between them, he was quite clearly and definitely convinced that Valeria’s early beliefs must go.
“Have you really never felt any doubt at all—any inclination to question?”
Valeria looked troubled.
“I suppose I’ve never thought it out very clearly. One doesn’t, you know, brought up as we were.”