"William," she said wearily, "I really don't know why you learn dancing."
"I learn dancin'," said William bitterly, "'cause they make me."
The various tribulations of the dancing-class almost drove the thought of the circus from his head. But he saw the tent as he went home. It was in darkness, as the afternoon performance was over, and the only sign of life he could see was a thin dog chewing a turnip at the tent door. He supposed that the clowns and princess-riders were having tea in the brilliantly-lit interiors of the closed caravans. He could imagine their sallies of wit and mirth; he listened for their roars of laughter, but the caravan walls were thick and he could hear nothing but a noise that might have been a baby crying, only William supposed it could not be that, for no baby who was lucky enough to live in a circus could surely be so misguided and ungrateful as to cry.
"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."
William glared at her.
The old man fixed his wistful bright eyes on William.