And once his eyes accustomed to the interior gloom, after the bright sunlight outside the pub, Doubleday spied Miss Somerville sitting with some other young women, and she was reading from a pamphlet, just a few sheets folded in half and he could see that the writing was by hand, rather than printed, and guessed that it was her own work:
"For he is a pantophobic who maligns the things he fears,
While the open henotheist, accepts that others may hold dear
To different Gods, on different worlds, in different Time and Place,
For all around us is infinity of Universal Space,
Which the human mind may fail to grasp,
Just as always with us, is Future, Present, Past!"
and she paused to look around the shining faces of her friends: "it's not finished, but what do you think?" and one sitting close, clapped her hands and said: "Future, Present, Past, always with us! what a thought! that would account for Ghosts, or strange visions which seem inexplicable! the voices Joan of Arc heard, even dreams . . . . ." and another chimed in: "you'll have the Archbishop attacking you, dear," and another: "but didn't John Donne write something about 'all the world in a grain of sand'?" and Miss Somerville grinned, impishly, rather impiously: "no, my love, that was William Blake, in Auguries of Innocence:
'To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour,'
but that's the point, really, not that I compare my doggerel with Blake, or Donne, but that people have to open their eyes to everything - we can't know the Truth of the Universe, nor imagine who or what created it, at least I can't, but I'm prepared to accept that other people have their sincere Faith and though I may not share it, like Voltaire, I'll defend their right to hold it to the death!" and Doubleday ordered a pint for himself and moved to a chair behind the young woman, determined to speak to her whenever a break in the conversation might allow it.