He went to the bath-room, moving like a sleepwalker, wrapped in his dream-like horror.  He found the ice, he broke it into little pieces, like that.  He was very careful and conscientious about the size, and grateful to Anne for giving him something to do.  Then he went back again and took up his station at the foot of the bed and waited.  His father still lay back on his pillow, propped by Eliot’s arm.  His hands were folded on his chest above the bedclothes.

Anne still stood by the bed holding her basin and her towel ready.  From time to time they gave him little pieces of ice to suck.

Once he opened his eyes, looked round the room and spoke.  “Is your mother there?”

“Do you want her?” Eliot said.

“No.  It’ll only upset her.  Don’t let her come in.”

He closed his eyes and opened them again.

“Is that Anne?”

“Yes.  Who did you think it was?”

“I don’t know...I’m sorry, Anne.”

“Darling—­” the word broke from a tender inarticulate sound she made.

Then:  “Jerrold—­,” he said.

Jerrold came closer.  His father’s right arm unfolded itself and stretched out towards him along the bed.

Anne whispered, “Take his hand.”  Jerrold took it.  He could feel it tremble as he touched it.

“It’s all right, Jerry,” he said.  “It’s all right.”  He gave a little choking cough.  His eyes darkened with a sudden anxiety, a fear.  His hand slackened.  His head sank forward.  Anne came between them.  Jerrold felt the slight thrust of her body pushing him aside.  He saw her arms stretched out, and the white gleam of the basin, then, the haemorrhage, jet after jet.  Then his father’s face tilted up on Eliot’s arm, very white, and Anne stooping over him tenderly, and her hand with the towel, wiping the red foam from his lips.

Then eyes glazed between half-shut lids, mouth open, and the noise of death.

Eliot’s arm laid down its burden.  He got up and put his hand on Jerrold’s shoulder and led him out of the room.  “Go out into the air,” he said.  “I’ll tell Mother.”

Jerrold staggered downstairs, and through the hall and out into the blinding sunshine.

Far down the avenue he could hear the whirring of the car coming back from Cheltenham; the lines of the beech trees opened fan-wise to let it through.  He saw Colin sitting up beside Scarrott.

Above his head a lattice ground and clattered.  Somebody was going through the front rooms, shutting the windows and pulling down the blinds.

Jerrold turned back into the house to meet Colin there.

Upstairs his father’s door opened and shut softly and Anne came out.  She moved along the gallery to her room.  Between the dark rails he could see her white skirt, and her arm, hanging, and the little specks of red splashed on the white sleeve.

iii