Ben had had time to make a careful choice of the least damning of his meditations. “I was thinking that the crickets don’t really sound like an orchestra. They’re more like adding machines.”
“Why, that’s true,” George exclaimed. “They have just that even, monotonous, cranking sound. Adding up some impossible and monstrous total. Counting the stars, maybe.”
“I hope you won’t think my thought is rude,” said Joyce. “It struck me that if it weren’t for Mr. Brook’s cigar I’d be convinced this is all a dream.—I don’t mean it isn’t a nice cigar, just that it smells so worldly.”
“Well, our secret thoughts all seem fairly innocent. But we haven’t heard yours yet, Mr. Martin.”
“I don’t think this is a very interesting game,” said Martin.
George insisted. “Come, the guest of honour can’t escape as easily as that. Out with it!”
“Do I have to?” Martin appealed to Phyllis. She came out of her reverie, aware that even darkness is inadequate as a sedative. The threads of relationship among them all had tightened.
“I know what Mr. Martin’s trouble is,” said Ruth. “He says everything he thinks, so naturally he has nothing left.”
“Why, that’s just it,” Martin said. “How did you know? What would be the good of thinking things and not saying them?”
“You’re not playing fair,” George objected. “No one would be crazy enough to say everything. Besides, there wouldn’t be time.”