Then: "Jerrold—," he said.
Jerrold came closer. His father's right arm unfolded itself and stretched out towards him along the bed.
Anne whispered, "Take his hand." Jerrold took it. He could feel it tremble as he touched it.
"It's all right, Jerry," he said. "It's all right." He gave a little choking cough. His eyes darkened with a sudden anxiety, a fear. His hand slackened. His head sank forward. Anne came between them. Jerrold felt the slight thrust of her body pushing him aside. He saw her arms stretched out, and the white gleam of the basin, then, the haemorrhage, jet after jet. Then his father's face tilted up on Eliot's arm, very white, and Anne stooping over him tenderly, and her hand with the towel, wiping the red foam from his lips.
Then eyes glazed between half-shut lids, mouth open, and the noise of death.
Eliot's arm laid down its burden. He got up and put his hand on Jerrold's shoulder and led him out of the room. "Go out into the air," he said. "I'll tell Mother."
Jerrold staggered downstairs, and through the hall and out into the blinding sunshine.
Far down the avenue he could hear the whirring of the car coming back from Cheltenham; the lines of the beech trees opened fan-wise to let it through. He saw Colin sitting up beside Scarrott.
Above his head a lattice ground and clattered. Somebody was going through the front rooms, shutting the windows and pulling down the blinds.
Jerrold turned back into the house to meet Colin there.