“I’m rather tired—do take me home, Mr. Munroe,” said Teresa.
He looked at her gratefully.
For some minutes they walked in silence, both embarrassed, Teresa turning over in her mind possible conversational openings. “You have been in South Africa, haven’t you?” “Do you play golf?”
But she could not get them out.
What she said finally was, “What did you mean exactly last night when you said to my mother that in times like the War one sees the star?”
“I mean the Star of Bethlehem—they’re seasons of Epiphany,” he answered.
“But how do you mean exactly?”
“Just that ... the Manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles.” He said the words slowly, with gusto, as if to him they had not yet become threadbare. “There were a lot of chaps converted to Catholicism during the War,” he went on.
“Were you?”