"I guess no one ever made _them_ learn dancin'," he said feelingly.
He found that Grandfather Moore and Aunt Lilian had already arrived.
William had never met his grandfather before, and he gazed in astonishment at him. He had met old people before, but he had not thought that anything quite so old as Grandfather Moore had ever existed or ever could exist. He was little, and wrinkled, and shrivelled, and bald. His face was yellow, with tiny little lines running criss-cross all over it; his bright little eyes seemed to have sunk right back. When he smiled he revealed a large expanse of bare gum, with three lonely-looking teeth at intervals. He had a few hairs, just above his neck at the back, otherwise his head was like a shining new egg. William was fascinated. He could hardly keep his eyes off him all tea-time.
Aunt Lilian's life work was looking after Grandfather Moore. It filled every minute of her time. She was a perfect daughter.
"May he sit with his back to the light?" she said. "You know you're better with your back to the light, dear. Bread and milk, please. Yes, he always has that, don't you, dear? Are you quite comfortable? Wouldn't you like a cushion? Get that footstool, William. This is William, dear--little William."
The old man fixed his wistful bright eyes on William.
"He's getting a bit simple," sighed Aunt Lilian, "poor darling!"
"You'll go to bed now, dear, won't you? You always like to go to bed early after a journey, don't you? He always likes to go to bed early after a long journey," she explained to the company.
She helped him upstairs tenderly and left him in his room.
William was despatched to bed at half-past seven as usual. They were surprised at his meekness. They thought he must have forgotten about the circus. They carefully avoided all mention of it. But William's silence was the silence of the tactician. Open attack had failed. He was now prepared to try secrecy.
Up in his room he sat down to consider the most unostentatious modes of exit from the house. There was the possibility of going downstairs and through the hall on stockinged feet so quickly as to escape notice. But there was always the chance of somebody's coming out into the hall at the critical minute, and then all would be lost. Or there was the possibility of climbing down from his window, but his room was on the third storey, and he had never yet attempted a descent from that height. Just beneath his room was Grandfather Moore's room. From the window of Grandfather Moore's room an old fig-tree afforded a convenient ladder to the ground. Grandfather Moore had gone to bed directly after tea. He would surely be asleep now. Anyway, William decided to risk it. He crept down the steps to Grandfather Moore's room and cautiously opened the door. The room was lit up, and before the fire sat Grandfather Moore, fully dressed. It was now impossible to withdraw. The bright little eyes were fixed on him, and Grandfather Moore smiled.