Consequently he kept that eye peeled; he made more use of his private study, and so often gave the excuse of having reports to write that, had it been true, his lumber Company would have been obliged to double its staff in order to read them. Yet, even in the study, he was not absolutely safe. The children penetrated there too. They knocked elaborately—always; but with the knock he invariably realised a roguish pair of eyes and a sly laugh on the other side of the door. It was like knocking on his heart direct. He always said—in a bored, unnatural tone: ‘Oh, come in, whoever it is!’ knowing quite well who it was. And, then, in they would come—one or the other of them. They slipped in softly as shadows, like the coming of dusk, like stray puffs of wind, fragrant and summery, or like unexpected rays of light as the sun walked round the house in the afternoon. And when they were gone—swiftly, like the sun dipping behind a cloud—lo, the room seemed cold and empty again. ‘Oh, they’re up to something, they’re up to something,’ he said wisely to himself with a sigh. ‘They’re laying traps for me, bless their little insolences!’ And the more he thought about it, the more certain he felt that Nixie, Jonah, and Toby were simply playing the Cat Game—pretending to accept his attitude because they saw he wished it. Only, less occult and intelligent than the cat, they sometimes made odd little slips that betrayed them. For instance, one evening Jonah penetrated into the study to say good-night, and brought the Chow puppies, China and Japan, with him. Their tails curled over their backs like wire brushes; their vigorous round bodies, for ever on the move, were all he could manage. Having been duly kissed, the child waited, however, for something else, and at length, receiving no assistance from his uncle, he lifted each puppy in turn on to the table. ‘You, Uncle, please hold them; I can’t,’ he explained. And, rather grimly, Paul tried to keep the two wriggling bodies still, while Jonah then came up a little closer to his chair. ‘_They_ have reports to write too, to their lumber-kings,’ he said, his face solemn as a gong—using a phrase culled heaven knows where. ‘So will you please see that they don’t make blots either.’ ‘But how did you know there were such things as lumber-kings?’ Paul asked, surprised. ‘I didn’t know. They knew,’ with a jerk of his head toward the struggling puppies, who hated the elevation of the table and the proximity of Paul’s bearded face. ‘They said you told them.’ There was no trace of a smile in his eyes; nothing but the earnest expression of the child taking part in the ponderous make-believe of the grown-up. Paul felt that by this simple expedient his reports and the safety they represented had been reduced in a single moment to the level of a paltry pretence. He blushed. ‘Well, tell them to run after their tails more, and think less,’ he said. ‘All right, Uncle Paul,’ and the boy was gone, grave as any judge.