"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.