For one wild moment Ernest Henry fancied that his friend had, after all, returned.
But no.

He knew that these were the conditions of this world, not of that other.

When he crept close to his friend he was caught up into a soft, rosy comfort, was conscious of nothing except ease and rest.

Here there were knobs and hard little buttons, and at first his head was pressed against a cold, slippery surface that hurt.

Nevertheless, the pressure was pleasant and comforting.