the first months after Ernest Henry's arrival on this planet his friend
was never absent from him at all, was always there, drawing through his
fingers the threads of the old happy life and the new alarming one,
mingling them so that the transition from the one to the other might not
be too sharp--reassuring, comforting, consoling. Then there had been
hours when he had withdrawn himself, and that earlier world had grown a
little vaguer, a little more remote, and certain things, certain foods
and smells and sounds had taken their place within the circle of
realised facts. Then it had come to be that the friend only came at
night, came at that moment when the nurse had gone, when the room was
dark, and the possible beasts--the first beast, the second beast, and
the third beast--began to creep amongst those cool, grey shadows in the
hollow of the room. He always came then, was there with his arm about
Ernest Henry, his great body, his dark beard, his large, firm hands--all
so reassuring that the beasts might do the worst, and nothing could come
of it. He brought with him, indeed, so much more than himself--brought a
whole world of recollected wonders, of all that other time when Ernest
Henry had other things to do, other disciplines, other triumphs, other
defeats, and other glories. Of late his memory of the other time had
been untrustworthy. Things during the day-time would remind him, but
would remind him, nevertheless, with a strange mingling of the world at
present about him, so that he was not sure of his visions. But when his
friend was with him the memories were real enough, and it was the
nurse, the fire, the red wallpaper, the smell of toast, the taste of
warm milk, that were faint and shadowy.

His friend was there, just as always, suddenly sitting there on the bed
with his arm round Ernest Henry's body, his dark beard just tickling
Ernest Henry's neck, his hand tight about Ernest Henry's hand. They told
one another things in the old way without tiresome words and sounds;