He tied the string of his pyjamas and knelt down by the small bed. It was a long time since he had prayed. During the war, in tight corners, when he had been terribly afraid, he had prayed⁠—the sick, emergency supplications of all soldiers⁠—the “O God, get me out of this and I will be good” kind of prayer. The padres used to preach sermons about such prayers, and sometimes Stephen had determined to pray always at the safe times as well as the dangerous, but this had never lasted for long. Now his prayers were on the same note, wrung out of him like his resolutions by the urgent emotions of the moment, sincere but bodiless.

He prayed, “O God, I have been a fool and a swine. O God, forgive me for this night’s work and get me out of the mess safely, and I will⁠—I will be good.” That was the only way of expressing it⁠—“being good,” like a child. “In future I will be a better man and pray more often. O God, keep this from Margery, for her sake, not mine. O God, forgive me, and make me better. Amen.”