“I’m sorry.... I’ll write your father a note tomorrow morning, Petra. I’d better. He will make your stepmother understand. But I’m sorry it was unpleasant when you got home....”
“Oh, I don’t mind that. Clare wasn’t cross. Only hurt, you know. But the evening—well, the evening has been—lovely. We’ve had a wonderful time!”
“_We’ve had a wonderful time!_” The words and the lilt in them echoed over and over in Lewis’ head, forbidding sleep. He told himself it was the oppressive heat of the night which held him awake, his eyes open on the dark. At least, he told himself that in the beginning. After an hour or more of restless tossing, however, Lewis admitted the truth. It was Petra’s happy, excited voice saying “_We’ve had a wonderful time_” that was making the very idea of sleep fantastic. The words and the new tone in which she uttered them opened vistas to Lewis’ imagination. It was absolutely inevitable in the light of to-day’s happenings that McCloud should—_worship_ Petra. How could he fail to! Only an imbecile, given the situation, could help it. McCloud, of course, was no imbecile. And Petra—how would she respond to the fellow’s idolization! Now that Lewis was at last face to face with the prophetic misery which was keeping him wakeful, he went on with it—followed the train of thought which he had, in his attempted self-deception, dammed up, while he tossed and blamed the stuffiness of the night.... McCloud was a gorgeous person. Gorgeous was a cheap adjective ordinarily, but in this one instance, it was the right adjective. McCloud—let Lewis face it, see it—was a gorgeous creature, not only physically, to look at, but in inward ways as well. Directness, simplicity and courage. Those qualities make for gorgeousness in a man. How could Petra, after to-night, fail to see McCloud as godlike? Why, her very share in bringing him back to life—for wasn’t that practically what she had done?—would add to her sensibility of his splendor.
“_Oh, I don’t mind. The evening—well, the evening has been—lovely._” Lewis laughed audibly. Why should she mind! Why had he ever thought she might, and been concerned about it? How should a stepmother’s annoyance tarnish such a meeting and recognition as had come into Petra’s life to-day! The very tone in which she used McCloud’s Christian name showed how things had gone between them.... Neil and Petra.... “My God!” said Lewis into the dark. “Neil and Petra! Was it foreordained?” He felt a powerful impulse to communicate further with Him of whom he had so spontaneously asked the bitter question. He turned over and buried his face in his crossed arms. But he did not know how to go on with the Contact—did not know how to pray. Lewis had been born into the tradition that formal prayers which one has by heart have no functioning quality. One must make up one’s own prayers, for originality is the only guarantee of His creatures’ sincerity the Omniscient will recognize. But Lewis doubted this proud notion now, as he lay here, facing down into the dark, helpless with the anguish of loss. If only there were patterns: sweet, fluent channels of accustomed prayer, through which one could pour one’s blind groping toward fortitude and peace! What was it McCloud had said to God in Lewis’ office this afternoon? That was prayer, certainly,—even though not uniquely and strikingly the boy’s individual invention. “God have mercy on me a sinner.” Yes, that would do. “God have mercy on me a sinner.” Lewis uttered the ancient unoriginal cry-of-all-souls with stark sincerity to God imminent, God transcendent, and added to it, after a long sweet stillness, “It is Your justice. Why did I think Petra was for such as me? Your justice is Your mercy, Lord.”