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 .
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