A start of laughter escaped Stanny, which had not altogether a merry sound.
“Why do you laugh?” asked Wilfred.
“Well, when we talk . . . you do most of the talking.”
“I suppose I do. . . . But you must know that nothing would please me better than to have you talk to me about yourself. How can I lead you on to talk about yourself, except by going on about myself?”
“I know,” mumbled Stanny. . . . “It’s not from any lack of friendliness that I don’t. It’s all inside,” he touched his breast; “but I can’t get it out. It hurts. . . .”
“I know,” whispered Wilfred.
“You don’t know!” said Stanny irritably. “Things come out of you easy enough. We’re different. You think over to-night and last night, and it makes you chuckle. I don’t feel like chuckling. I drank too much wine. It brings things up in me that I can keep under most times. I drink to forget, and it only makes things clearer. I dread the end of the evening, when I’ve got to lie here staring. . . .”
“What things?” asked Wilfred in concern.
“I don’t know. . . .” Wilfred heard his teeth click together in pain. “I’ve got my head against a stone wall. Always have had.”
“You’ve got a stubborn kind of nature . . .” hazarded Wilfred.