“I couldn’t care more if you were my own daughter.  Darling Robert felt about you just the same.  You can’t leave me.”

And Anne didn’t.  She never could resist unhappiness.  She thought:  “I was glad enough to stop with her through all the happy times.  I’d be a perfect beast to go and leave her now when she’s miserable and hasn’t got anybody.”

It would have been better for Anne if she could have gone.  Robert Fielding’s death and Jerrold’s absence were two griefs that inflamed each other; they came together to make one immense, intolerable wound.  And here at Wyck, she couldn’t move without coming upon something that touched it and stung it to fresh pain.  But Anne was not like Jerrold, to turn from what she loved because it hurt her.  For as long as she could remember all her happiness had come to her at Wyck.  If unhappiness came now, she had got, as Eliot said, “to take it.”

And so she stayed on through the autumn, then over Christmas to the New Year; this time because of Colin who was suffering from depression.  Colin had never got over his father’s death and Jerrold’s going; and the last thing Jerrold had said to her before he went was; “You’ll look after Col-Col, won’t you?  Don’t let him go grousing about by himself.”

Jerrold had always expected her to look after Colin.  At seventeen there was still something piteous and breakable about him, something that clung to you for help.  Eliot said that if Colin didn’t look out he’d be a regular neurotic.  But he owned that Anne was good for him.

“I don’t know what you do to him, but he’s better when you’re there.”

Eliot was the one who appeared to have recovered first.  He met the shock of his father’s death with a defiant energy and will.

He was working now at bacteriology under Sir Martin Crozier.  Covered with a white linen coat, in a white-washed room of inconceivable cleanness, surrounded by test-tubes and mixing jars, Eliot spent the best part of the day handling the germs of the deadliest diseases; making cultures, examining them under the microscope; preparing vaccines.  He went home to the brown velvety, leathery study in his Welbeck Street flat to write out his notes, or read some monograph on inoculation; or he dined with a colleague and talked to him about bacteria.

At this period of his youth Eliot had more than ever the appearance of inhuman preoccupation.  His dark, serious face detached itself with a sort of sullen apathy from the social scene.  He seemed to have no keen interests beyond his slides and mixing jars and test-tubes.  Women, for whom his indifference had a perverse fascination, said of him:  “Dr. Fielding isn’t interested in people, only in their diseases.  And not really in diseases, only in their germs.”

They never suspected that Eliot was passionate, and that a fierce pity had driven him into his profession.  The thought of preventable disease filled him with fury; he had no tolerance for the society that tolerated it.  He suffered because he had a clearer vision and a profounder sense of suffering than most persons.  Up to the time of his father’s death all Eliot’s suffering had been other people’s.  He couldn’t rest till he had done something to remove the cause of it.