Robert

i But when to-morrow came he did not kiss her. He was annoyed with Anne
because she insisted on taking a gloomy view of his father's illness.

The doctors couldn't agree about it. Dr. Ransome of Wyck said it was
gastritis. Dr. Harper of Cheltenham said it was colitis. He had had that
before and had got better. Now he was getting worse, fast. For the last
three days he couldn't keep down his chicken and fish. Yesterday not
even his milk. To-day, not even his ice-water. Then they both said it
was acute gastritis.

"He's never been like this before, Jerrold."

"No. But that doesn't mean he isn't going to get better. People with
acute gastritis do get better. It's enough to make him die, everybody
insisting that he's going to. And it's rot sending for Eliot."

That was what Anne had done.

Eliot had written to her from London:
10 Welbeck St., _Sept. 35th, 1910._ My dear Anne: I wish you'd tell me how Father really is. Nobody but you has
any intelligence that matters. Between Mother's wails and
Jerrold's optimism I don't seem to be getting the truth. If it's
serious I'll come down at once.

Always yours, Eliot.

And Anne had answered: My dear Eliot, It _is_ serious. Dr. Ransome and Dr. Harper say so. They think
now it's acute gastritis. I wish you'd come down. Jerrold is
heart-breaking. He won't see it; because he couldn't bear it if
he did. I know Auntie wants you.

Always very affectionately yours, Anne.