He was revealing himself as one of those people who like to pour themselves out about their own affairs, not so much out of egotism as from an impulse to show confidence towards their hearers, to establish relations which shall rest upon no misunderstanding, in which nothing shall be kept back. Wilbraham was without that impulse, but he was also without any large share of egotism. He was interested in other people, and usually preferred that they should talk about themselves, since few people are interesting upon any other subject. He had some curiosity about Bastian’s history, which seemed to have had contradictions in it, when his refinement of speech and manner was compared with his confessed and apparent indigence, which was rather below that to which men of birth and breeding sink, even if they are without the earning capacity. "How old is your daughter?" he asked, a little confused between the mention of her as a child and that of her work. "Sixteen or seventeen," said Bastian. "I can’t quite remember which, and I don’t particularly want to. I don’t suppose I shall keep her with me for many years. She’s a very beautiful girl. So was her mother. And gentle and sweet and good too—both of them. Ah, whatever I’ve missed in life—whatever mistakes I’ve made—I’ve had that. There’s nothing in this world like a good and beautiful woman,—’A lovely apparition, sent to be a moment’s ornament’—how does it go on? I can’t keep these things in my head." Wilbraham threw a look at Bastian’s glass, of which the contents were now reduced by half. His speech showed no sign of deterioration—he was evidently one of those people who could "carry their liquor"—but Wilbraham recognized his state as one in which the ordinary dictates of reticence would be considerably relaxed. His own glass was nearly as full as before. He could quite easily have gone away and left it there. He felt that the small amount he had already drunk had done him a vast amount of good, enlightened his brain and stimulated his body. He had an impulse of pity towards Bastian, who was under the influence of the desire from which he had emancipated himself, and of self-congratulation at his own freedom. Thank God that he could drink what was good for him, and stop there. He was inclined to like Bastian exceedingly. It might be possible, if he got to know him better, to help him out of the morass into which he had fallen. It seemed probable that the state of poverty to which he had come was owing to habits of intemperance. A man who had had the same inclinations and might have been brought under by them, but had overcome them instead, would be the right man to help another, if he could gain his confidence. And Bastian seemed to be in the mood to give confidence.