He surveyed, with pleased anticipation, the probable progress of his day.  He glanced at the pile of toys in the farther corner of the room, and thought to himself that he might, after all, find some diversion there.  Yesterday they had seemed disappointing; to-day in the glow of the sun they suggested, adventure.  Then he looked towards that stretch of country—­that wall-to-screen marathon—­and, with an eye upon his nurse, meditated a further attempt.  He put down his spoon, and felt his bump.  It was better; perchance there would be two bumps by the evening.  And then, suddenly, he remembered....  He felt again the terror, saw the lights and his nurse, then that new friend....  He pondered, lifted his spoon, waved it in the air; and then smiling with the happy recovery of a pleasant, friendly sound, repeated half to himself, half to his nurse:  “Damn!  Damn!  Damn!”

That began for him the difficulties of his day.  He was hustled, shaken; words, words, words were poured down upon him.  He understood that, in some strange, unexpected, bewildering fashion he had done wrong.  There was nothing more puzzling in his present surroundings than that amazingly sudden transition from serenity to danger.  Here one was, warm with food, bathed in sunlight, with a fine, ripe day in front of one....  Then the mere murmur of a sound, and all was tragedy.

He hated his toys, his nurse, his food, his world; he sat in a corner of the room and glowered....  How was he to know?  If, under direct encouragement, he could be induced to say “dada,” or “horse,” or “twain,” he received nothing but applause and, often enough, reward.  Yet, let him make use of that pleasant new sound that he had learnt, and he was in disgrace.  Upon this day, more than any other in his young life, he ached, he longed for some explanation.  Then, sitting there in his corner, there came to him a discovery, the force of which was never, throughout all his later life, to leave him.  He had been deserted by his friend.  His last link with that other life was broken.  He was here, planted in the strangest of strange places, with nothing whatever to help him.  He was alone; he must fight for his own hand.  He would—­from that moment, seated there beneath the window, Ernest Henry Wilberforce challenged the terrors of this world, and found them sawdust—­he would say “damn” as often as he pleased.  “Damn, damn, damn, damn,” he whispered, and marked again, with meditative eye, the space from wall to screen.

After this, greatly cheered, he bethought him of the Square.  Last night his friend had said to him that when he wished to think of him, and go back for a time to the other world, a peep into the Square would assist him.  He clambered up on to the window-seat, caught behind him those sounds, “Now, Master Ernest,” which he now definitely connected with condemnation and disapproval, shook his curls in defiance, and pressed his nose to the glass.  The Square was a dazzling sight.  He had not as yet names for any of the things that he saw there, nor, when he went out on his magnificent daily progress in his perambulator did he associate the things that he found immediately around him with the things that he saw from his lofty window; but, with every absorbed gaze they stood more securely before him, and were fixed ever more firmly in his memory.