Peter had gone before Kite arrived. Old Maria let Kite in, and Amos called from the sitting room:
“Right in here, Kite. I’m too darned lazy to come and meet you. Leave your hat in the hall.”
Kite obeyed the summons, and Amos said lazily: “Take a chair, Kite. Any chair.” And when the little man had sat down: “Fine day, Kite. I tell you, there isn’t any place that can beat Hardiston in May that I know of.”
Kite said: “That’s right, Amos.”
“Yes, sir,” Amos repeated. “They can’t beat old Hardiston.” He lapsed into one of those characteristic silences, head on one side, squinting idly straight before him, his pipe hissing in his mouth. You might have thought there were no words in the man. Kite said impatiently:
“Amos, I want to talk to you.”
Amos looked at him, and said amiably: “Well, Kite, you’ll never have a likelier chance. I don’t aim to move out of this chair.”
“Well,” said Kite uneasily, “I want to talk to you about young Chase.”
“Yes. Wint.”