I WAS in the lounge when I made her acquaintance, enjoying a pipe
after tea, and perhaps--I don't know--closing my eyes now and then.
"Would you like to see my shells?" she asked suddenly.
I woke up and looked at her. She was about seven years old, pretty,
dark, and very much at ease.
"I should love it," I said.
She produced a large paper bag from somewhere, and poured the
contents in front of me.
"I've got two hundred and fifty-eight," she announced.
"So I see," I said. I wasn't going to count them."
"I think they're very pretty. I'll give you one if you like. Which
one will you choose?"
I sat up and examined them carefully. Seeing how short a time we had
known each other, I didn't feel that I could take one of the good
ones. After a little thought I chose quite a plain one, which had
belonged to a winkle some weeks ago.
"Thank you very much," I said.
"I don't think you choose shells at all well," she said scornfully.
"That's one of the ugly ones."
"It will grow on me," I explained. "In a year or two I shall think
it beautiful."
"I'll let you have this one too," said she, picking out the best.
"Now, shall we play at something?"
I had been playing at something all day. A little thinking in front
of the fire was my present programme.
"Let's talk instead," I suggested. "What's your name?"
"Betty."
"I knew it was Betty. You look just like Betty."
"What's yours?"
Somehow I hadn't expected that. After all, though, it was only fair.
"Orlando," I said.
"What a funny name. I don't like it."
"You should have said so before. It's too late now. What have you
been doing all day?"
"Playing on the sands. What have you been doing?"
"I've been playing in the sand too. I suppose, Betty, you know
nearly everybody in the hotel?"
"Oh, I play with them all sometimes."
"Yes; then tell me, Betty, do you ever get asked what time you go to
bed?"
"They ALL ask me that," said Betty promptly.
"I think I should like to ask you too," I said, "just to be in the
movement. When is it?"
"Half-past six." She looked at the clock. "So we've got half an
hour. I'll get my ball."
Before I had time to do anything about it, the ball came bouncing
in, hit me on the side of the head, and hurried off to hide itself
under an old lady dozing in the corner. Betty followed more
sedately.
"Where's my ball?" she asked.
"Has it come in?" I said in surprise. "Then it must have gone out
again. It noticed you weren't here."
"I believe you've got it."
"I swear I haven't, Betty. I think the lady in the corner knows
something about it."
Betty rushed across to her and began to crawl under her chair. I
nervously rehearsed a few sentences to myself.
"It is not my child, madam. I found it here. Surely you can see that
there is no likeness between us? If we keep quite still perhaps it
will go away."
"I've got it," cried Betty, and the old lady woke up with a jerk.
"What are you doing, child?" she said crossly.
"Your little girl, madam," I began--but Betty's ball bit me on the
head again before I could develop my theme.
"Your little girl, sir," began the old lady at the same moment.
"I said it first," I murmured. "Betty," I went on aloud, "what is
your name, my child?"
"You've just said it."
"I mean," I corrected myself quickly, "where do you live?"
"Kensington."
I looked triumphantly at the old lady. Surely a father wouldn't need
to ask his own child where she lived? However, the old lady was
asleep again. I turned to Betty.
"We shall have to play this game more quietly," I said. "In fact, we
had better make some new rules. Instead of hitting me on the head
each time, you can roll the ball gently along the floor to me, and I
shall roll it gently back to you. And the one who misses it first
goes to bed."
I gave her an easy one to start with, wishing to work up naturally
to the denouement, and she gave me a very difficult one back, not
quite understanding the object of the game.
"You've got to go to bed," she cried, clapping her hands. "You've
got--to go--to bed. You've got--to go--to bed. You've--"
"All right," I said coldly. "Don't make a song about it."
It was ten minutes past six. I generally go to bed at eleven-thirty.
It would be the longest night I had had for years. I sighed and
prepared to go.
"You needn't go till half-past," said Betty kindly.
"No, no," I said firmly. "Rules are rules." I had just remembered
that there was nothing in the rules about not getting up again.
"Then I'll come with you and see your room."
"No, you mustn't do that; you'd fall out of the window. It's a very
tricky window. I'm always falling out of it myself."
"Then let's go on playing here, and we won't go to bed if we miss."
"Very well," I agreed. Really there was nothing else for it.
Robbed of its chief interest, the game proved, after ten minutes or
so, to be one of the duller ones. Whatever people say, I don't think
it compares with cricket, for instance. It is certainly not so
subtle as golf.
"I like playing this game," said Betty. "Don't you?"
"I think I shall get to love it," I said, looking at the clock.
There were still five minutes, and I rolled down a very fast googly
which beat her entirely and went straight for the door. Under the
old rules she would have gone to bed at once. Alas, that--
"Look out," I said as she went after it, "there's somebody coming
in."
Somebody came in. She smiled ruefully at us and then took Betty's
hand.
"I'm afraid my little girl has been worrying you," she said
prettily.
"I KNEW you'd say that," said Betty.