“You’re too young. . . .”
“Oh, I don’t think age has got much to do with it. I knew the same things when I was a child. Age only seems to bring you the words to put them to.”
“Words! Huh! They don’t explain anything.”
“It’s the same with books,” Wilfred went on. “You don’t learn much from books. In books you just seize on what has already been whispered to you.”
“Oh, for God’s sake! You’re beany!”
Wilfred clung to his arm. “I know,” he murmured. “Let me be that way with you. Let me let everything come out without having to watch myself, or be sorry for it afterwards. You’re my only safety valve.”
Stanny returned the pressure of his arm. “Oh, blow off as much as you want to,” he grumbled. “Don’t mind my cursing.” He struggled with what he had next to say: “The truth is . . . the truth is . . . I need you too. There is no curtain between us. . . . But I’ll never admit it again.” Then very gruffly: “And don’t think you have me explained with your literary phrases!”
“I don’t, really. All my life I’ll be speculating about you, without ever being sure of anything.”
“Well, don’t let me know you’re doing it, that’s all.”