"A poet named Potts? You must be mistaken. A poet could not be named Potts."
Amelia set her lips doggedly.
"This one was."
"Perhaps he was a tinker really, or you are mistaken in the name, as I said before. Poets have musical-sounding names, such as Wordsworth, Tennyson, Byron."
Amelia was evidently trying to keep her temper.
"This man was named Potts, I know it for a fact, for I always remembered it by thinking of kettles."
"Oh!" I said.
"Yes, whenever I wants to remember a name I think of somethink else like it, that helps me. When that stout lady called on you I thought of a cobbler."
"Oh, Mrs. Cobbold," I said brightly, pleased at being able to follow her meaning.
She cheered up a little.