“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.”