“No, mum.”
“Will it ever be ready?”
“Well, mum,” replied Amenda, in a tone of genial frankness, “to tell you the truth, I don’t think it ever will.”
“What’s the reason? Won’t the fire light?”
“Oh yes, it lights all right.”
“Well, then, why can’t you cook the breakfast?”
“Because before you can turn yourself round it goes out again.”
Amenda never volunteered statements. She answered the question put to her and then stopped dead. I called downstairs to her on one occasion, before I understood her peculiarities, to ask her if she knew the time. She replied, “Yes, sir,” and disappeared into the back kitchen. At the end of thirty seconds or so, I called down again. “I asked you, Amenda,” I said reproachfully, “to tell me the time about ten minutes ago.”
“Oh, did you?” she called back pleasantly. “I beg your pardon. I thought you asked me if I knew it—it’s half-past four.”
Ethelbertha inquired—to return to our fire—if she had tried lighting it again.