However, that was not to be. Some time very shortly after I came back from Paris my father broke down. Whether it was the first indication that he was not well or there had been others, I do not know, but one morning, sitting at the breakfast table, he put his head in his hands and wept. My mother was clattering about with dishes in the kitchen and the younger children had left for school. I was sitting at the table with him, in the dining-room, but I did not know what to do. I was very frightened and when I remember the sound of him sobbing the fear returns. I cannot recall exactly what happened next, but my mother came, as always, to his side, and, with her arms around his shoulders, walked with him out of the room. Many telephone calls followed and, later that morning, he was admitted to a psychiatric hospital. I used to go and see him with my mother, for whom this was a very grim period.