And the
door she opened thus carelessly gave upon a stormy background like one
of the stormy backgrounds that were popular behind portrait Dianas in
eighteenth century paintings. Did she believe that all he had taught
her, all the life he led was--what was her phrase?--a kind of magic
world, not really real?
He groaned and turned over and repeated the words: "A kind of magic
world--not really real!"
The wind blew through the door she opened, and scattered everything in
the room. And still she held the door open.
He was astonished at himself. He started up in swift indignation. Had
he not taught the child? Had he not brought her up in an atmosphere
of faith? What right had she to turn upon him in this matter? It
was--indeed it was--a sort of insolence, a lack of reverence....
It was strange he had not perceived this at the time.
But indeed at the first mention of "questionings" he ought to have
thundered. He saw that quite clearly now. He ought to have cried out and
said, "On your knees, my Norah, and ask pardon of God!"
Because after all faith is an emotional thing....
He began to think very rapidly and copiously of things he ought to have
said to Eleanor.
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