They had finished breakfast and moved into the sitting room and filled their pipes. Agnes came downstairs in her kimono, hair flying, and kissed Amos and pretended to be embarrassed at appearing before Peter in her attractive disarray. Then she went out to her breakfast. The two men smoked without speaking. Amos had looked after his daughter with a certain trouble in his eyes; and Peter saw it. Peter did not like Agnes. Peter had gone before Kite arrived. Old Maria let Kite in, and Amos called from the sitting room: “Right in here, Kite. I’m too darned lazy to come and meet you. Leave your hat in the hall.” Kite obeyed the summons, and Amos said lazily: “Take a chair, Kite. Any chair.” And when the little man had sat down: “Fine day, Kite. I tell you, there isn’t any place that can beat Hardiston in May that I know of.” Kite said: “That’s right, Amos.” “Yes, sir,” Amos repeated. “They can’t beat old Hardiston.” He lapsed into one of those characteristic silences, head on one side, squinting idly straight before him, his pipe hissing in his mouth. You might have thought there were no words in the man. Kite said impatiently: “Amos, I want to talk to you.” Amos looked at him, and said amiably: “Well, Kite, you’ll never have a likelier chance. I don’t aim to move out of this chair.” “Well,” said Kite uneasily, “I want to talk to you about young Chase.” “Mayor Chase?” “Yes. Wint.” “Oh!” said Amos, without any curiosity. “I mean to say,” Kite explained, “I want to talk about this move of his. You’ve heard about it.” “I hadn’t heard he’d moved,” said Amos. “Thought he was living with his paw. Where’s he gone to now?” “Damn it, Amos!” Kite protested, “don’t fool with me. You know what I mean.” “Kite,” said Amos, “nobody ever knows what you mean, even when you say it. You’re such an excitable man.” “Well, who wouldn’t get excited? I tell you, this is a--” “What is?” Amos asked, interrupting without seeming to do so. “This damned idea of enforcing a fool liquor law.” “Oh, that,” said Amos. Kite leaned forward. “Is it your doing, Amos? Did you get him to do this? Because if you did--” “Why, man,” said Amos, “I’m not Wint’s boss.” “You elected him.” “You elected him as much as me, Kite. And I heard how he called you a buzzard. If he calls you a buzzard, what do you think he’d call me?” “I hold no grudge for that,” Kite explained. “He was drunk. Fact remains, he’s friendly with you. I ask you, I’m asking you flatly: Did you prompt him to do this, or tell him to, or advise him to in any way?” “Well,” said Amos, “if you ask me, I’ll say: No.” Kite slapped his knee. “I knew it,” he exclaimed. “Who says I did?” Amos asked. “Wint say I did?” “No. He says you didn’t. Chase and Routt claim you did it.” “Chase? And Jack Routt? Why, now, I take that unkind,” Amos protested, in a hurt voice, and Kite realized that he had blundered, and hurried past the danger point.