Mrs. Bradmere. [Winking out a grim little smile] Very well!  You’ve given me your views.  Now for mine.  There’s a piece of scandal going about that’s got to be stopped, Godleigh.  You turn the tap of it off here, or we’ll turn your tap off.  You know me.  See?

Godleigh.  I shouldn’ never presume, m’m, to know a lady.

Mrs. Bradmere.  The Rector’s quite determined, so is Sir Herbert.  Ordinary scandal’s bad enough, but this touches the Church.  While Mr. Strangway remains curate here, there must be no talk about him and his affairs.

Godleigh. [Cocking his eye] I was just thinkin’ how to du it, m’m.  ’Twid be a brave notion to putt the men in chokey, and slit the women’s tongues-like, same as they du in outlandish places, as I’m told.

Mrs. Bradmere.  Don’t talk nonsense, Godleigh; and mind what I say, because I mean it.

Godleigh.  Make yure mind aisy, m’m there’ll be no scandal-monkeyin’ here wi’ my permission.

     [Mrs. Bradmere gives him a keen stare, but seeing him perfectly
     grave, nods her head with approval.]

Mrs. Bradmere.  Good!  You know what’s being said, of course?

Godleigh. [With respectful gravity] Yu’ll pardon me, m’m, but ef an’ in case yu was goin’ to tell me, there’s a rule in this ’ouse:  “No scandal ’ere!”

Mrs. Bradmere. [Twinkling grimly] You’re too smart by half, my man.

Godleigh.  Aw fegs, no, m’m—­child in yure ’ands.

Mrs. Bradmere.  I wouldn’t trust you a yard.  Once more, Godleigh!  This is a Christian village, and we mean it to remain so.  You look out for yourself.

     [The door opens to admit the farmers Trustaford and Burlacombe. 
     They doff their hats to Mrs. Bradmere, who, after one more sharp
     look at Godleigh, moves towards the door.]

Mrs. Bradmere.  Evening, Mr. Trustaford. [To Burlacombe] Burlacombe, tell your wife that duck she sent up was in hard training.

     [With one of her grim winks, and a nod, she goes.]

Trustaford. [Replacing a hat which is black, hard, and not very new, on his long head, above a long face, clean-shaved but for little whiskers] What’s the old grey mare want, then? [With a horse-laugh] ‘Er’s lukin’ awful wise!

Godleigh. [Enigmatically] Ah!

Trustaford. [Sitting on the bench dose to the bar] Drop o’ whisky, an’ potash.

Burlacombe. [A taciturn, alien, yellowish man, in a worn soft hat] What’s wise, Godleigh?  Drop o’ cider.

Godleigh.  Nuse?  There’s never no nuse in this ’ouse.  Aw, no!  Not wi’ my permission. [In imitation] This is a Christian village.

Trustaford.  Thought the old grey mare seemed mighty busy. [To Burlacombe] ‘Tes rather quare about the curate’s wife a-cumin’ motorin’ this mornin’.  Passed me wi’ her face all smothered up in a veil, goggles an’ all.  Haw, haw!