"You ought to hear what your daughter has been saying about you," said Julia.
"Oh, and what does Barbara say?" I asked.
"She says that when Father sits in that stuffy little room of his he usually writes in his sleep. She really does take the most amazing notice of things, and the way she expresses herself is quite weird."
"So Barbara says I write in my sleep?"
"Yes, you heard her, didn't you, Suzie? Oh, and did I tell you that the other day, during that heavy thunderstorm, she said that the angels and the devils must be having a big battle and that she supposed the angels would soon be going over the top?"
"Come here, Barbara," I said.
Barbara, who at her too fond aunt's request had been granted the privilege of taking tea in the drawing-room, stuffed the better half of a jam sandwich into her mouth and came.
"Do you see those rich-looking pink cakes?" I asked her. "You shall have one as soon as we've had a little talk."
"The biggest and pinkiest one?" demanded Barbara.
"Yes. Now tell me—don't you think that people ought always to speak the truth, and to be especially careful not to distort the remarks of others?"