struggle was rendered especially hard by two
elements in her make-up: Frances wanted always to give Gilbert
exactly what _he_ wanted, and she hated to admit even to herself
anything that could be called a fault in him. She saw the overwork
that she was powerless to stop: she could not but be aware how great
it made the temptation. It was for her to remember the old illness,
to be vigilant without worrying him, to help him against himself.

After the long illness Dr. Pocock had advised total abstinence for
some years, largely because, as he told me, Gilbert, unless specially
warned, ate and drank absentmindedly anything that happened to be
there! He observed this prohibition faithfully until Dr. Pocock left
Beaconsfield in 1919. Dr. Bakewell, who succeeded him advised
moderation but only occasionally found it necessary to order total
abstention. It was the amount of liquid he feared rather than its
nature. When he forbade wine he did so because wine increased the
general tendency to absorb liquid. For Gilbert was always unslakeably
thirsty. Daily he drank several bottles of Vichy Water or Evian, also
of claret at what may be called the "open" seasons, and many cups of
tea and coffee. Spirits he practically never touched, nor such
heavier wines as port and sherry. But even two bottles of claret or
Burgundy, although usually appearing to brighten his intellect, might
well be a serious strain on the digestion of a man who overworked the
mind without exercising the body. "He loved to sip a glass of wine,"
Monsignor O'Connor writes, "and to stroll between sips in and out of
his study, brooding and jotting, and then the dictation was ready for
the morning."

Dorothy Collins once kept a record for a few weeks of the number of
words dictated of the book of the moment--usually thirteen to
fourteen thousand, about twenty-one hours weekly--exclusive of
journalism, editing and lecturing. The pressure was tremendous and
increasing, nor was it felt by Gilbert only. In a letter to Maurice
Baring at the time of his conversion he writes: "For deeper reasons
than I could ever explain, my mind has to turn especially on the
thought of my wife, whose life has been in many ways a very heroic
tragedy; and to whom I am so much in debt of honour that I cannot
bear to leave her, even psychologically, if it be possible by tact
and sympathy to take her with me."

Frances would indeed have been amazed to find herself cast for such a
part. Her li