Dead Man's Land / Being the Voyage to Zimbambangwe of certain and uncertain blacks and whites

Mark jumped up.
“You there, father! I did not hear you come in.”
Doctor Robertson, tutor, half rose from his seat by the glowing library fire.
“No, my boy, and I did not hear you come in.”
“Why, uncle, you have been sitting there listening!” cried Dean.
“To be sure I have. How could I help it, sir? I came in tired, and thought I would have a nap in my own chair till it was time to change for dinner, and you woke me up out of a pleasant dream which somehow shaped itself into climbing with an ice axe and nearly losing it. It was some time before I could make out whether I was really awake or dreaming still, and I lay listening and getting more and more interested in what the doctor described to you two stupid boys.”
“Oh, father, you shouldn’t have listened!” said Mark.
“What, sir!” cried Sir James Roche hotly. “And pray why shouldn’t I have listened?”
“Because—because—”
“Because—because! Well, go on, sir.”
“Well, Dr Robertson said something to us boys one day about what he called eavesdropping.”