Wilbraham told me that during these moments he was surrendering himself to an emotion and intimacy and companionship that was the most wonderful thing that he had ever known. It was that intimacy and companionship, he told me, for which all his days he had been searching. It was the one thing that life never seemed to give; even in the greatest love, the deepest friendship, there was that seed of loneliness hidden. He had never found it in man or woman. Now it was so wonderful that the first thing he said was: "And now you're going to stay, aren't you? You won't go away at once...?" "Of course, I'll stay," he answered. "If you want me." His Visitor was dressed in some dark suit; there was nothing about Him in any way odd or unusual. His Face was thin and pale, His smile kindly. His English was without accent. His voice was soft and very melodious. But Wilbraham could notice nothing but His Eyes; they were the most beautiful, tender, gentle Eyes that he had ever seen in any human being. They sat down. Wilbraham's overwhelming fear was lest his Guest should leave him. They began to talk and Wilbraham took it at once as accepted that his Friend knew all about him--everything. He found himself eagerly plunging into details of scenes, episodes that he had long put behind him--put behind him for shame perhaps or for regret or for sorrow. He knew at once that there was nothing that he need veil nor hide--nothing. He had no sense that he must consider susceptibilities nor avoid self-confession that was humiliating. But he did find, as he talked on, a sense of shame from another side creep towards him and begin to enclose him. Shame at the smallness, meanness, emptiness of the things that he declared. He had had always behind his mistakes and sins a sense that he was a rather unusually interesting person; if only his friends knew everything about him they would be surprised at the remarkable man that he really was. Now it was exactly the opposite sense that came over him. In the gold-rimmed mirror that was over his mantlepiece he saw himself diminishing, diminishing, diminishing ... First himself, large, red-faced, smiling, rotund, lying back in his chair; then the face shrivelling, the limbs shortening, then the face small and peaked, the hands and legs little and mean, then the chair enormous about and around the little trembling animal cowering against the cushion. He sprang up. "No, no ... I can't tell you any more--and you've known it all so long. I am mean, small, nothing--I have not even great ambition ... nothing." His Guest stood up and put His Hand on his shoulder. They talked, standing side by side, and He said some things that belonged to Wilbraham alone, that he would not tell me. Wilbraham asked Him why He had come--and to him.