There was an agitated pause on the sheepskin mat outside the Uncle’s study door.
‘Shall we knock?’ Charles asked.
‘You don’t knock at sitting-room doors,’ said Caroline, turned the handle, and opened the door three inches and three-eighths.
‘Who’s that?’ said the voice of the Uncle. ‘How often am I to give orders that I am not to be disturbed on any pretence?’
‘There isn’t any pretence,’ Charles was beginning, when Caroline broke in with:
‘It’s a depredation of the Secret Rose.’
‘So I perceive. But I am too busy to play now,’ said the Uncle; and you could tell by the very way he spoke that he had his thumb in a book and was afraid of losing his place.
‘It isn’t play. We want to ask your permission for something.’
‘Well, if I receive this deputation, will it undertake not to do it again for a week, on any pretence? Then come in.’