Hodeslea, Staveley Road, Eastbourne: November 1, 1892.
My dear Mrs. Romanes,—I have just written to the Vice-Chancellor to say that I hope to meet his disposition any time next May.
My wife is 'larking'—I am sorry to use such a word, but what she is pleased to tell me of her doings leaves me no alternative—in London, whither I go on Monday to fetch her back—in chains, if necessary. But I know, in the matter of being 'taken in and done for' by your hospitable selves, I may, for once, speak for her as much as myself.
Don't ask anybody above the rank of the younger son of a peer, because I shall not be able to go into dinner before him or her, and that part of my dignity is naturally what I prize most.
Would you not like me to come in my P.C.[100] suit? All ablaze with gold, and costing a sum with which I could buy, oh! so many books.
Only if your late experiences should prompt you to instruct your other guests not to contradict me—don't—I rather like it.
Ever yours very truly,
T. H. Huxley.
Bon voyage! You can tell Mr. Jones[101] that I will have him brought before the Privy Council, and fined as in the good old days, if he does not treat you properly.
Then came the departure for Madeira, which was a real trial, for never before had Christmas been spent away from home. But the change seemed to do him much good. Save for occasional days of headache he was very bright and well, and worked at his book and wrote several articles for the 'Contemporary Review' on Professor Weismann's theory. But poetry he could not manage.