Ernest Henry watched his father, watched the light, heard the bell and the harp, felt that the hour was ripe for his attempt.
He started, and, even as he did so, was aware that, after he had succeeded in this great adventure, things--that is, life--would never be quite the same again.

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.