Who was Christine? It was as though suddenly the corner of a curtain had been raised for a moment, letting him look through into a strange new country.
"I don't know."
The clergyman waved his hand, damping down the titters that spluttered up nervously, threatening to explode outright. He himself had an air of slight dishevelment, as though his ideas had been blown about by a rude wind.
"I remember—Mr. Morton spoke to me—your guardian, of course. You should answer properly. But still, surely you have been taught—some religious instruction. You say your prayers, don't you?"
"No." He added after a moment of sudden, vivid recollection: "Not now."
It was nothing short of a debacle. He had pulled out the keystone of an invisible edifice which had come tumbling about their ears, leaving him in safety. Without knowing how or why, he knew he had got the better of them all. The grins died out of the upturned faces. They looked at him with amazement, with horror, yes—with respect.
"But you have been taught your catechism—to—to believe in God?"
"No."
"But the hymn—at least you could have sung the hymn, my poor boy. You can read, can't you?"
"No."