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hours when he had withdrawn himself, and that earlier world had grown a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.
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