"Why do you never listen to the sermon?" she asked, seething with hostility and violation.
"I do," he said.
"You don't—you don't hear a single word."
He retired into himself, to enjoy his own sensation. There was something subterranean about him, as if he had an underworld refuge. The young girl hated to be in the house with him when he was like this.
After dinner, he retired into the parlour, continuing in the same state of abstraction, which was a burden intolerable to her. Then he went to the book-shelf and took down books to look at, that she had scarcely glanced over.
He sat absorbed over a book on the illuminations in old missals, and then over a book on paintings in churches: Italian, English, French and German. He had, when he was sixteen, discovered a Roman Catholic bookshop where he could find such things.
He turned the leaves in absorption, absorbed in looking, not thinking. He was like a man whose eyes were in his chest, she said of him later.
She came to look at the things with him. Half they fascinated her. She was puzzled, interested, and antagonistic.
It was when she came to pictures of the Pietà that she burst out.
"I do think they're loathsome," she cried.
"What?" he said, surprised, abstracted.
"Those bodies with slits in them, posing to be worshipped."
"You see, it means the Sacraments, the Bread," he said, slowly.
"Does it!" she cried. "Then it's worse. I don't want to see your chest slit, nor to eat your dead body, even if you offer it me. Can't you see it's horrible?"
"It isn't me, it's Christ."
"What if it is, it's you! And it's horrible, you wallowing in your own dead body, and thinking of eating it in the Sacrament."
"You've to take it for what it means."
"It means your human body put up to be slit and killed and then worshipped—what else?"
They lapsed into silence. His soul grew angry and aloof.
"And I think that Lamb in Church," she said, "is the biggest joke in the parish"
She burst into a "Pouf" of ridiculing laughter.
