"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 to look at you in chapel. You're just as different from me as any one can be, and that's why you're like God to me. I don't want you to be decent to me. I think I'd rather you weren't. But I like to come in sometimes and hear you say that I'm dirty and untidy. That shows that you've noticed." "But I'm not at all the sort of person to make a hero of," Olva said hurriedly. "I don't want you to feel like that about we. That's all sentimentality. You mustn't feel like that about anybody. You must stand on your own legs."