"Don't you believe they called me Helen?" said the old lady.
"I didn't know old ladies had first names," said Tom, blinking.
Mrs. Bentley laughed dryly.
"You never hear them used, he means," said Jane.
"My dear, when you are as old as I, they won't call you Jane, either. Old age is dreadfully formal. It's always 'Mrs.' Young People don't like to call you 'Helen.' It seems much too flip."
"How old are you?" asked Alice.
"I remember the pterodactyl." Mrs. Bentley smiled.
"No, but how old?"
"Seventy-two."
They gave their cold sweets an extra long suck, deliberating.
"That's old," said Tom.
"I don't feel any different now than when I was your age," said the old lady.
"Our age?"
"Yes. Once I was a pretty little girl just like you, Jane, and you, Alice."
They did not speak.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing." Jane got up.
"Oh, you don't have to go so soon, I hope. You haven't finished eating.... Is something the matter?"
"My mother says it isn't nice to fib," said Jane.
"Of course it isn't. It's very bad," agreed Mrs. Bentley.
"And not to listen to fibs."
"Who was fibbing to you, Jane?"
Jane looked at her and then glanced nervously away. "You were."
"I? " Mrs. Bentley laughed and put her withered claw to her small bosom. "About what?"
"About your age. About being a little girl."
Mrs. Bentley stiffened. "But I was, many years ago, a little girl just like you."
"Come on, Alice, Tom."
"Just a moment," said Mrs. Bentley. "Don't you believe me?"
"I don't know," said Jane. "No."
"But how ridiculous! It's perfectly obvious. Everyone was young once!"