“I . . . I can’t tell you what you are to me, Stanny. . . .” “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t try!” said Stanny quickly. “To have somebody I can talk to like this . . . I can’t believe it! I had made up my mind that I was a freak. I expected to be laughed at, so I intended to hold my tongue all my life. . . . Do you think I am effeminate, Stanny?” “Oh, for God’s sake . . . !” He _does_ think so; thought Wilfred; but it doesn’t matter if he is my friend. “It isn’t important,” said Stanny, groping for expression; “all this bunk about manliness . . . if you have mind . . . if you have character. . . .” “Yes, but have I?” demanded Wilfred. “Don’t worry about it . . . ! You’re too self-conscious.” “Sure! But how can I help that? You’re like my Aunts. When I was little they were always telling me I was too thin-skinned. You might as well blame a man for being blind.” “Don’t think about yourself so much.” “Everything comes back to yourself. Yourself is the only measure you have for other things. . . . I’ve read hundreds of books, but I’ve never had anybody to tell me things. I don’t even know how to pronounce the words I have read, because I never heard anybody say them. . . . Only my grandfather, and he died when I was eleven. He was a man! I read his books. They are stored in a packing-room next to my room. Darwin, Huxley, Spencer and Tyndall were his favorites. I can’t make much of Huxley or Herbert Spencer, but Darwin! Oh, Gee! Darwin is my man!” “Why Darwin in particular?” “I dunno. Sort of mental hero. Always willing to face a new fact though it destroyed all his work up to that moment. . . . My grandfather wasn’t a one-sided man. He read the poets too; also Emerson and Carlyle. I’m crazy about Carlyle. . . . . It was fine to discover that your nature and mine were alike, Stanny!” “You hop about so!” grumbled Stanny. “The hell they are!” “I know. . . . It is you and the others, who have cured me, made me healthy in my mind. I used to think I was going crazy. . . . But especially you. There’s something between you and me . . . like this, we can talk about things. . . .” 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.