“But they send you to bed,” persisted Veronica.
“Let them,” I said. “What is bed so long as the voice of the inward Monitor consoles us with the reflection—”
“But it don’t,” interrupted Veronica; “it makes you feel all the madder. It does really.”
“It oughtn’t to,” I told her.
“Then why does it?” argued Veronica. “Why don’t it do what it ought to?”
The trouble about arguing with children is that they will argue too.
“Life’s a difficult problem, Veronica,” I allowed. “Things are not as they ought to be, I admit it. But one must not despair. Something’s got to be done.”
“It’s jolly hard on some of us,” said Veronica. “Strive as you may, you can’t please everyone. And if you just as much as stand up for yourself, oh, crikey!”
“The duty of the grown-up person, Veronica,” I said, “is to bring up the child in the way that it should go. It isn’t easy work, and occasionally irritability may creep in.”
“There’s such a lot of ’em at it,” grumbled Veronica. “There are times, between ’em all, when you don’t know whether you’re standing on your head or your heels.”