tly. I hated them."

Here was a real note of passion! Bunning seemed, for an instant, to be
quite vigorous.

"That's why I'm so untidy now," Bunning went desperately on; "nobody
cared how I looked. I was stupid at school, my reports were awful, and
I was a day boy. It is very bad for any one to be a day boy--very!" he
added reflectively, as though he were recalling scenes and incidents.

"Yes?" said Olva encouragingly. He was being drawn by Bunning's artless
narration away from the Shadow. It was still there, its arm outstretched
above the snowy court, but Bunning seemed, in some odd way, to
intervene.

"I always wanted to find God in those days. It sounds a stupid thing
to say, but they used to speak about Him--mother and the rest--just as
though He lived down the street. They knew all about Him and I used to
wonder why I didn't know too. But I didn't. It wasn't real to me. I used
to make myself think that it was, but it wasn't."

"Why didn't you talk to your mother about it?--

"I did. But they were always too busy with missions and things. And then
there was my elder brother. _He_ understood about God and went to all
the Bible meetings and things, and he was always so neat-never dirty--I
used to wonder how he did it . . . always so neat."

Bunning took off his great spectacles and wiped them with a very dirty
handkerchief.

"And had you no friends?"

"None--nobody. I didn't want them after a bit. I was afraid of
everybody. I used to go down all the side-streets between school and
home for fear lest I should meet some one. I was always very nervous as
a boy--very. I still am."

"Nervous of people?"

"Yes, of everybody. And of things, too--things. I still am. You'd
be surprised. . . . It's odd because none of the other Bunnings are
nervous. I used to have fancies about God."

"What sort of fancies?"

"I used to see Him when I was in bed like a great big shadow, all up
against the wall. A grey shadow with his head ever so high. That's how I
used to think of Him. I expect that all sounds nonsense to you."

"No, not at all!" said Olva.

"I think they thought me nearly an idiot at home--not sane at all. But
they didn't think of me very often. They used to apologise for me when
people came to tea. I wasn't clever, of course--that's why they thought
I'd make a good parson."

He paused--then very nervously he went on. "But now I've met you I
shan't be. Nothing can make me. I've always watched you. I used