"Oh, then, I'm sure I don't. And so you cleaned it."
"It came off in cakes. I had to take a knife to it."
"The lime?"
She eyed me sadly.
"I'm afraid you're not listenin', mum?"
"Why?"
"I'm just tellin' you as how I put the lime on, and you asks me if I took it off. It's the dirt—the fat I'm speaking of now."
"Oh, of course. It's the dirt you are speaking of—the fat that stank in your nostrils." I added this last to show how very sure I was of my ground. But this didn't appease her. She was in a contrary mood, and rose.
"Don't go," I cried. "Wait, I have something important to ask you. I—" feverishly I cudgelled my brains—"I want to know the name of the poet who used to go to the Tompkinses', and looked like a garden leek. Was it by any chance"—I picked up a book—"William Watson?"
"No, mum, William Potts."