Most of our time is spent in sheer idleness, or rather, I should say, all of my time, and that proportion of my wife's which is spent in reading to me—chiefly novels, poetry, and history. Yesterday, we had Coppée's play 'Le Pater,' which I know you have read. For the length of it, I think it is as powerful a piece of dramatic writing as I have ever read.
Very few worries find their way to L'Ermitage. The worst at present is the choice of the next 'Romanes Lecturer.' Owing to his accident, Helmholtz has blocked the way for the last two months, but now promises a final reply in the course of a few days. If he does come, I hope the University will give him the D.C.L.
With our united kindest regards to Mrs. Paget, whose messages to me are of more benefit than all my doctor's drugs (now that is a thing I 'would rather have expressed otherwise'!) and yourself,
I remain, ever your affectionate friend,
G. J. Romanes.
For a while all went well, he liked the place, and was able to work a little, and to have many books read to him. He had taken out Dr. Martineau's 'Study of Religion,' and other philosophical books, and he also plunged into poetry, reading Wordsworth chiefly.
In December came what seemed to be a severe gastric attack, with other alarming symptoms, and for a few hours he seemed to be dying. But this passed off, and although he was kept in bed for three weeks he grew better, and in some ways there seemed grounds for fresh hope.
For a few days in January he was under the care of a cousin with two trained nurses, and his letters home were surprisingly bright.
His wife's maid, of whom he was very fond, was terribly ill in January, and he writes:
Give Jane my love, and tell her I never forget how good she was to me when I thought I was dying in her arms at Boar's Hill.