He was turned in another direction.
Yet, tonight, they were remarkably engaging.... He had lost a great
deal. For what? He couldn't--as usual--answer; but the memory of
Savina, stronger than Fanny, metaphorically took Helena's arms away
from his neck and blurred the image of Gregory. "Have you said your
prayer?" he asked absent-mindedly making conversation. Oh, yes, he was
informed, they did that with Martha. "I'll say mine again," Gregory
volunteered. Again--a picture of a child, in a halo of innocence,
praying at a paternal knee to a fresco of saccharine angels!
"Once is enough," he answered hurriedly. "I am sure you do it very
nicely."
"Well, anyhow, better than Helena," Gregory admitted. "She hurries so."
Lee instructed him to confine his observations to his own performance.
Now was the time for him to deliver a small sermon on prayer to Helena.
He recognized this, but he was merely incensed by it. What could he
reply if they questioned him about his own devotions? Should he
acknowledge that he thought prayer was no more than a pleasant form of
administering to a sense of self-importance? Or, at most, a variety of
self-help? Luckily they didn't ask. How outraged Fanny would be--he
would be driven from the community--if he confessed the slightest of
his doubts to his children. If, say at the table, when they were all
together, he should drop his negative silence, his policy of
nonintervention, what a horrified breathlessness would follow.
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