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;
but, for the benefit of those who are unfortunately too aged to remember
that old and pleasant intercourse, one must make use of the English
language. Ernest Henry displayed his bump, and explained its origin; and
then, even as he did so, was aware that the reality of the bump made the
other world just a little less real. He was proud that he had walked and
stood up, and had been the master of his circumstance; but just because
he had done so he was aware that his friend was a little, a very little
farther away to-night than he had ever been before.
"Well, I'm very glad that you're going to stand on your own, because
you'll have to.
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