"No, I won't. I'm going home."
"John must have been interested in our conversation."
"John grows deafer each day," she said as she drove away.
I wandered down the lane to meet Dimbie, and presently he turned the corner.
CHAPTER III
ON AMELIA, FLUES, AND DRAIN-BAMBOOS
"Put down your worries," said Nanty, so I must perforce enter Amelia and the kitchen boiler. The boiler won't yield hot water, and Amelia says that isn't her fault, that she wasn't the plumber who put it there, and she can't be expected to get a flue-brush into a hole the size of a threepenny-bit.
When I said I thought she put it up the chimney she asked me what for.
"To clean the flue, of course," I retorted, a little irritably; and she replied with fine scorn that flues didn't grow up chimneys, but at the backs of fire-grates and other un-get-at-able places.