Next to money, though, sex is nothing, and the harder Jonathan worked at the profession he despised – and despised as much for the pleasure it gave him as for the imposture it forced on him – the less money there seemed to be. People paid him with chickens and vegetables for his sermons, and even with these they seemed to be more and more niggardly. When an ignorant stuffed shirt who represented the Washington District Synod came to visit, Jonathan corrected his grammar. Afterwards Sarah said, ‘That wasn’t wise, Johnny. You mustn’t let them know how smart you are. They won’t like it.’ She was right. And this, too, he held against her.

‘Dear Johnny’ – the letter was postmarked Ellsworth, Maine – ‘I am sorry to say I have a statement on my desk from the Washington District Synod concerning you.’ Jonathan bought a ticket to Ellsworth.

Grayberg’s cluttered study smelled of burned porridge as it always had; dust still hung on the walls, and the chair Jonathan sat in was covered with the well-remembered dog’s hairs. Grayberg was unchanged, too, still the same short, irascible, pot-bellied, un-parsonlike parson, who loved his food much and messily; on this morning, a piece of dried egg yolk clung to his upper lip and jiggled as he spoke.

‘Reports in here were middling good,’ Grayberg said, holding up a sheaf of papers that Jonathan knew to be his personal file, ‘up till about eight – maybe ten months ago.’ Grayberg took his breath in sharply; the piece of egg yolk stood at attention. ‘Examination results good. Written sermons good. Delivery good. Personal conduct good.’ Jonathan shifted in his chair. ‘But now – but now, my young friend—’

Grayberg selected three or four papers to waggle at Jonathan, who reached out for them.

‘No, sir.’ Grayberg drew them back. ‘Nope. You ain’t allowed to lay eyes on these.’

‘Why the hell not?’ Jonathan said irritably.

‘Well, what do you know? Charge number one proven just like that.’ Grayberg shook his head and the piece of egg yolk shook with it. ‘Blasphemy, Reverend. I thought that was going to be the tough one. Difficult stuff, hearsay, ain’t it? Not that a few barnyard words do you any harm, but cussing as such—’

‘What are the other charges?’ Jonathan interrupted. ‘Must be more than an ill-chosen word here and there.’

‘You fixing to listen to me, or—’

‘Is charges the right word, by the way? Am I standing in the witness box?’

Grayberg shut his mouth with a snap. The piece of egg yolk dropped to the desk in front of him. ‘Oh me, oh my, ain’t we touchy?’ He poked at the fallen scrap for a minute. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘The Ministerial Session out there wrote to me. He’s your boy, they said, ask him a few questions. What I hear is that these days you ain’t exhorting sinners at all. Says right here you’re on about, uh’ – he checked the page in front of him – ‘universal divinity. What is that stuff anyways?’