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. I replied with a hearty affirmative.