I am going to the x, but then you see I fly straight after dinner to
Collier's per cab, and there is no particular microbe army in Eton
Avenue lying in wait for me.
Either let me see after the dinner, or sleep in town, and don't worry.
Yours affectionately,
T.H. Huxley.
Hodeslea, Eastbourne, February 19, 1892.
My dear Hooker,
I have just received a notice that Hirst's funeral is to-morrow. But we are in the midst of the bitterest easterly gale and snowfall we have had all the winter, and there is no sign of the weather mending.
Neither you nor I have any business to commit suicide for that which after all is a mere sign of the affection we have no need to prove for our dear old friend, and the chances are that half an hour cold chapel and grave-side on a day like this would finish us.
I write this not that I imagine you would think of going, but because my last note spoke so decidedly of my own intention.
But who could have anticipated this sudden reversion to Arctic conditions!