writing some Collects for time of war, and read many of them
aloud to me for criticism. He was also painting in oils, attempting very
difficult landscapes with considerable success. They stood drying in the
study, and he was much absorbed in them; he also was fishing keenly in a
little trout lake near the house, and walking about with a gun. His
spirits were very equable and good. But he told me that he had gone out
shooting in September over some fields lent him by a neighbour, and had
had to return owing to breathlessness; and he added that he suffered
constantly from breathlessness and pain in the chest and arms, that he
could only walk a few paces at a time, and then had to rest to recover
his breath. He did not seem to be anxious about it, but he went down one
morning to celebrate Mass at Ambleside, refusing the offer of the car,
and found himself in such pain that he then and there went to a doctor,
who said that he believed it to be indigestion.

He sat that morning after breakfast with me, smoking, and complaining
that the pain was very severe. But he did not look ill; and the pain
suddenly left him. "Oh what bliss!" he said. "It's gone, suddenly and
entirely--and now I must go out and finish my sketch."

The only two things that made me feel anxious were that he had given up
smoking to a considerable extent, and that he said he meant to consult
our family doctor; but he was so lively and animated--I remember one
night the immense zest and intensity with which he played a game of
throwing an old pack of cards across the room into the grate--that it
was impossible to think that his condition was serious.

Indeed, I said good-bye to him when he went off, without the least
anticipation of evil. My real hope was that he would be told he had been
overdoing it, and ordered to rest; and a few days later, when I heard
that this was what the doctor advised, I wrote to him suggesting that he
should come and settle at Cambridge for a couple of months, do exactly
what he liked, and see as much or as little of people as he liked. It
seems that he showed this letter to one of the priests at Manchester,
and said, "There, that is what I call a real invitation--that is what I
shall do!"

Dr. Ross-Todd saw him, and told him that it was a neuralgic affection,
"false angina," and that his heart was sound, but that he must diminish
his work. He pleaded to be allowed to finish his imminent engagements;
the doctor said that he mig