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.