There was a long silence.  At last she put her hand on his arm.

“You know you want to be happy, don’t you?  You say you don’t want to be lonely.  That’s why you drink the miserable stuff, to make you forget that you’re unhappy and friendless.”

“Yes—­you do understand, you see,” he cried eagerly.

“Well, this is where I’m so puzzled.  I’m quite happy, and I always think people are my friends.  What I want to know is what is there inside us two that’s different?”

He shook his head impatiently.

“It’s in my family,” he began, and she felt it on the tip of her tongue to tell him it was in hers too, but something stopped her.  “And it’s a hunger—­absolutely an unendurable hunger.”

“Were you always frightened of things?” she said, a little wonderingly.

“No—­I was always nervy and shy and repressed.  But this is a vicious circle, don’t you see?  A thing is called a vicious circle in medicine when cause and effect are so closely linked that you can’t tell which is which.  At home I was repressed; that was the fashion in my young days.  The motto was, ‘Children are to be seen and not heard.’  I dodged visitors always; when I met them by any chance I was always a fool with them, blinking and stammering like anything.  When I was first at the hospital among men I was gawky until quite by chance I discovered that whisky made me graceful, stopped the stammering, gave me a surprising flow of eloquence and made me feel a damned fine chap.  Naturally I went at it like anything, and of course after each burst was more nervous than ever.  It plays havoc with your nerves, you know.  And in addition I had a sense of guilt.—­Oh, damn life!”

“Yes,” she said slowly.  She understood what a vicious circle was now.  “You drank to stop yourself being nervous.  The stuff makes you temporarily happy, and then even more nervous afterwards.  So you drink more.  Oh, my goodness, how silly!”

“But you don’t take into account what a hunger it is, you know,” he said in a low voice.  “You don’t understand that.  I don’t think there can be such another hunger on earth, even love.”

“Oh—­” she started to speak, and stopped.  She had never thought of love like that, and wanted to tell him so, but that seemed to be side-tracking.  So she went on, “Has it occurred to you that it will make you ill, kill you in time?”

“Do you think I’ve had five years at a hospital without seeing alcoholism?” he said bitterly.  “Oh, I know all the diseases—­I shall go mad, I expect.  My brain’s much weaker than my body.”

“I suppose you think it’s very nice to go mad?” she said, hating herself for the futility of her words, wishing she had books or preachments to hurl at him and convince him.

“Oh, what’s it matter?” he said wearily.  “Who cares?”

“Have you any idea how horrible it is, Louis?” she asked solemnly, with all the tragedy of the farm behind her words, compelling him to look at her.