Finch dropped to his knees on the cold floor. Kneeling by the bedside in the pale moonlight, he was a pathetic young figure. But the sight held no pathos for Piers.
"Now, then," he said. "Fire away." Finch pressed his face against his clenched hands.
"Why don't you begin?" asked Piers, rising on his elbow and speaking testily.
"I—I have begun," came in a muffled voice.
"I can't hear you. How do you expect the Almighty to hear you if I can't? Speak up."
"I c-can't. I won't!"
"You shall. Or you'll be sorry."
In the stress of the moment, all Finch's prayers left him, as earlier all his Euclid had done. In the dim chaos of his soul only two words of supplication remained. "Oh God," he muttered, hoarsely, and because he could think of nothing else, and must pray or be abused by that devil Piers, he repeated the words again and again in a hollow, shaking voice.
Piers lay listening blandly. He thought Finch the most ridiculous duffer he had ever known, He was a mystery Piers would never fathom. Suddenly he thought: "I'm fed up with this," and said: "Enough, enough. It's not much of a prayer you've made, but still you've a nice intimate way with the Almighty. You'd make a good Methodist of the Holy Roller variety." He added, not unkindly, "Hop into bed now."
But Finch would not hop. He clutched the counterpane and went on sobbing, "Oh God!" The room was full of the presence of the Deity to him, now wearing the face of the terrible, austere Old Testament God, now, miraculously, the handsome, sneering face of Piers. Only a rap on the head brought him to his senses. He somehow got his long body back into bed, shivering all over.
