“I began to work.
“I work best on the sofa; I think most clearly in what appears to the hasty observer to be an attitude of rest. But I am not sure that Celia really understands this yet. Accordingly, when a knock comes at the door I jump to my feet, ruffle my hair, and stride up and down the room with one hand on my brow. ‘Come in,’ I call impatiently, and Celia finds me absolutely in the throes. If there should chance to be a second knock later on, I make a sprint for the writing-desk, seize pen and paper, upset the ink or not as it happens, and present to any one coming in at the door the most thoroughly engrossed back in London.
“But that was in the good old days of knuckle-knocking. On this particular morning I had hardly written more than a couple of thousand words—I mean I had hardly got the cushions at the back of my head comfortably settled when Celia came in.
“‘Well?’ she said eagerly.
“I struggled out of the sofa.
“‘What is it?’ I asked sternly.
“‘Did you hear it all right?’
“‘I didn’t hear anything.’
“‘Oh!’ she said in great disappointment. ‘But perhaps you were asleep,’ she went on hopefully.
“‘Certainly not. I was working.’