Joan crept back into bed.  A new wonder had come to her.  And from that night Joan’s belief in Mrs. Munday’s God began to fade, circumstances helping.

Firstly there was the great event of going to school.  She was glad to get away from home, a massive, stiffly furnished house in a wealthy suburb of Liverpool.  Her mother, since she could remember, had been an invalid, rarely leaving her bedroom till the afternoon.  Her father, the owner of large engineering works, she only saw, as a rule, at dinner-time, when she would come down to dessert.  It had been different when she was very young, before her mother had been taken ill.  Then she had been more with them both.  She had dim recollections of her father playing with her, pretending to be a bear and growling at her from behind the sofa.  And then he would seize and hug her and they would both laugh, while he tossed her into the air and caught her.  He had looked so big and handsome.  All through her childhood there had been the desire to recreate those days, to spring into the air and catch her arms about his neck.  She could have loved him dearly if he had only let her.  Once, seeking explanation, she had opened her heart a little to Mrs. Munday.  It was disappointment, Mrs. Munday thought, that she had not been a boy; and with that Joan had to content herself.  Maybe also her mother’s illness had helped to sadden him.  Or perhaps it was mere temperament, as she argued to herself later, for which they were both responsible.  Those little tricks of coaxing, of tenderness, of wilfulness, by means of which other girls wriggled their way so successfully into a warm nest of cosy affection:  she had never been able to employ them.  Beneath her self-confidence was a shyness, an immovable reserve that had always prevented her from expressing her emotions.  She had inherited it, doubtless enough, from him.  Perhaps one day, between them, they would break down the barrier, the strength of which seemed to lie in its very flimsiness, its impalpability.

And then during college vacations, returning home with growing notions and views of her own, she had found herself so often in antagonism with him.  His fierce puritanism, so opposed to all her enthusiasms.  Arguing with him, she might almost have been listening to one of his Cromwellian ancestors risen from the dead.  There had been disputes between him and his work-people, and Joan had taken the side of the men.  He had not been angry with her, but coldly contemptuous.  And yet, in spite of it all, if he had only made a sign!  She wanted to fling herself crying into his arms and shake him—­make him listen to her wisdom, sitting on his knee with her hands clasped round his neck.  He was not really intolerant and stupid.  That had been proved by his letting her go to a Church of England school.  Her mother had expressed no wish.  It was he who had selected it.