The drawing-room door was open, and so was that of my study on the
opposite side of the passage, where I was coquetting with a trifle
of work. The conversation, which I could not help overhearing, was
confined for the most part to Julia and Barbara, and ran more or less
on the following lines:--
_Julia._ Where's Father, Babs?
_Barbara._ In the libery.
_Julia._ Working hard, I suppose?
_Barbara._ Yes.
_Julia._ Or do you think he's sleeping? (_No answer._) Don't you think
father's probably asleep half the time he's supposed to be working?
_Barbara._ Probly. What you got in that bag?
_Julia._ I expect that big armchair he sits in is just a weeny bit too
comfy for real work.
_Barbara._ I've eated up all those choc'lates you did bring me.
_Julia._ Perhaps we'll find some more presently. Do you think Father
writes in his sleep?
_Barbara._ Yes, I fink he does.
_Julia._ Listen to her, Suzie. I expect really he only dreams he's
working. Don't you, Babs?
At this point I thought it advisable, for the sake of preserving
the remnants of my parental authority, to come in to tea. Julia was
handing Barbara a packet of chocolate, and greeted me with an arch
inquiry as to whether I had been busy writing.
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