The window showed a faint oblong of gray now, beyond where the Major breathed, and certain objects were dingily and coldly visible.  He perceived the broken-backed chair on which his clothes were heaped—­with the exception of his flannel shirt, which he still wore; he caught a glimmer of white where Gertie’s blouse hung up for an airing.

He half expected that things would appear more hopeful if he sat up in bed.  Yet they did not.  The sight of the room, such as it was, brought the concrete and material even more forcibly upon him—­the gross things that are called Facts.  And it seemed to him that there were no facts beyond them.  These were the bones of the Universe—­a stuffy bedroom, a rasping flannel suit, a cold dawn, a snoring in the gloom, and three bodies, heavy with weariness....  There once had been other facts:  Merefield and Cambridge and Eton had once existed; Jenny had once been a living person who loved him; once there had been a thing called Religion.  But they existed no longer.  He had touched reality at last.

* * * * *

Frank drew a long, dismal sigh; he lay down; he knew the worst now; and in five minutes he was asleep.

(II)

Of course, the thing wore away by midday, and matters had readjusted themselves.  But the effect remained as a kind of bruise below the surface.  He was conscious that it had once been possible for him to doubt the value of everything; he was aware that there was a certain mood in which nothing seemed worth while.

It was practically his first experience of the kind, and he did not understand it.  But it did its work; and I date from that day a certain increased sort of obstinacy that showed itself even more plainly in his character.  One thing or the other must be the effect of such a mood in which—­even though only for an hour or two—­all things other than physical take on themselves an appearance of illusiveness:  either the standard is lowered and these things are treated as slightly doubtful; or the will sets its teeth and determines to live by them, whether they are doubtful or not.  And the latter I take to be the most utter form of faith.

* * * * *

About midday the twine round Frank’s bundle broke abruptly, and every several article fell on to the road.  He repressed a violent feeling of irritation, and turned round to pick them up.  The Major and Gertie instinctively made for a gate in the hedge, rested down their bundles and leaned against it.

Frank gathered the articles—­a shirt, a pair of softer shoes, a razor and brush, a tin of potted meat, a rosary, a small round cracked looking-glass and a piece of lead piping—­and packed them once more carefully together on the bank.  He tested his string, knotted it, drew it tight, and it broke again.  The tin of potted meat—­like some small intelligent animal—­ran hastily off the path and dived into a small drain.