He knew by now every stage of the first half of
his journey. The first instalment was defined by that picture of the
garden and the roses and the peacocks; the second by the beginning of
the square brown nursery table; and here there was always a swift and
very testing temptation to cling, with a sticky hand, to the hard and
shining corner. The third division was the end of the nursery table
where one was again tempted to give the corner a final clutch before
passing forth into the void. After this there was nothing, no rest, no
possible harbour until the end.
Off Ernest Henry started. He could see his father, there in the long
distance, busied with his paper; he could see the nursery table, with
bright-blue and red reels of cotton that nurse had left there; he could
see a discarded railway engine that lay gaping there half-way across,
ready to catch and trip him if he were not careful. His eyes were like
saucers, the hissing noise came from between his teeth, his forehead
frowned. He passed the peacock, he flung contemptuously aside the
proffered corner of the table; he passed, as an Atlantic liner passes
the Eddystone, the table's other end; he was on the last stretch.
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