“William,” she said, “that surely was not ten?”
“Sounded like ten,” said William.
Aunt Jane put down her last stick of pull-out candy unfinished.
“We—we ought to go,” she said weakly.
*****
“Well,” said William’s mother when they returned. “I do hope it wasn’t too tiring for you.”
Aunt Jane sat down on a chair and thought. She thought over the evening. No, she couldn’t really have done all that—have seen all that. It was impossible—quite impossible. It must be imagination. She must have seen someone else doing all those things. She must have gone quietly round with William and watched him enjoy himself. Of course that was all she’d done. It must have been. The other was unthinkable.
So she smiled, a patient, weary little smile.
“Well, of course,” she said, “I’m a little tired but I think William enjoyed it.”