"Sunstroke too," I murmured.
"Do you hear? I am worth £3,000 a year. I can give you everything you want."
He raised his voice excitedly. And of course Amelia, who was bringing tea, tipped the hot-water jug over, and in endeavouring to catch it dropped the tray, and then sat down among the ruins and began to weep.
"Don't be a fool!" said Dimbie. "Get up! it doesn't matter."
But Amelia remained rooted to the ground, sobbing her heart out.
"I shan't leave, I shan't go," she wailed at length, looking at me as though I were contradicting her.
"Of course you won't," I agreed. "It's not the best china. It doesn't matter the least little bit in the world, Amelia."
"Oh, I don't mean that, mum. I mean that if the master's got £3,000 a year—I couldn't help hearin'—there'll be no room for Amelia Cockles. You won't want me. You'll keep cook, kitchenmaid, housemaid, parlour-maid, butler, boots, and have hentries, hoary-doves, cheese-straws, low dresses, and dessert every day of the week."
She reeled this off without apparently drawing breath, and I too was breathless at the contemplation of such a truly awful prospect.
"Never!" I said.