Thea was obviously delighted by the story. She questioned him closely about all the details, laughed a lot, and wanted to know everything exactly. But Gurdweill was sick of the whole affair, and in the end he said that he didn’t know anything else about it.

After the meal, which lasted longer than usual, was over, Gurdweill went to warm up the coffee, and they drank it laced with brandy. Thea was in high spirits; she had already resigned herself to the boring, empty evening. With a cigarette in her mouth she capered about the room, pinching and scratching her husband as she passed him.

‘If you like,’ said Gurdweill suddenly, ‘I’ll read to you from the New Testament.’

‘Wonderful! A wonderful idea.’

He cleared the table, took out the New Testament, a little book in a typical black cover, and began to read in a low, pleasant voice from St Matthew’s Gospel about the birth of Jesus Christ. He read for about half an hour, while his wife sat opposite him, her head resting on her hands, smoking without a pause. When he finished he went on sitting for a while without moving. A strange, eerie silence descended. The upper half of the room was shrouded in semi-darkness, as before. A feeling akin to shame welled up in Gurdweill, and he could not understand what it meant. Suddenly what he had read seemed utterly naive to him, insipid and lacking in any poetic spirit. All that was left was the unpleasant aftertaste of over-masticated chewing gum.