Strangway.  Poor fellow!

Mrs. Bradmere. [Looking at him sharply] Is your wife back?

Strangway. [Starting] No.

Mrs. Bradmere.  By the way, poor Mrs. Cremer—­is she any better?

Strangway.  No; going fast:  Wonderful—­so patient.

Mrs. Bradmere. [With gruff sympathy] Um!  Yes.  They know how to die! [Wide another sharp look at him] D’you expect your wife soon?

Strangway.  I I—­hope so.

Mrs. Bradmere:  So do I. The sooner the better.

Strangway. [Shrinking] I trust the Rector’s not suffering so much this morning?

Mrs. Bradmere.  Thank you!  His foot’s very bad.

     [As she speaks Mrs. Burlacombe returns with a large pale-blue
     book in her bared.]

Mrs. Burlacombe.  Good day, M’m! [Taking the book across to
Strangway] Miss Willie, she says she’m very sorry, zurr.

Strangway.  She was very welcome, Mrs. Burlacombe. [To Mrs.
Burlacombe] Forgive me—­my sermon.

[He goes into the house.  The two women graze after him.  Then, at once, as it were, draw into themselves, as if preparing for an encounter, and yet seem to expand as if losing the need for restraint.]

Mrs. Bradmere. [Abruptly] He misses his wife very much, I’m afraid.

Mrs. Burlacombe.  Ah!  Don’t he?  Poor dear man; he keeps a terrible tight ’and over ’imself, but ‘tis suthin’ cruel the way he walks about at night.  He’m just like a cow when its calf’s weaned.  ’T’as gone to me ’eart truly to see ’im these months past.  T’other day when I went up to du his rume, I yeard a noise like this [she sniffs]; an’ ther’ ‘e was at the wardrobe, snuffin’ at ’er things.  I did never think a man cud care for a woman so much as that.

Mrs. Bradmere.  H’m!

Mrs. Burlacombe.  ‘Tis funny rest an’ ‘e comin’ ’ere for quiet after that tearin’ great London parish!  ’E’m terrible absent-minded tu —­don’t take no interest in ‘is fude.  Yesterday, goin’ on for one o’clock, ’e says to me, “I expect ’tis nearly breakfast-time, Mrs. Burlacombe!” ’E’d ’ad it twice already!

Mrs. Bradmere.  Twice!  Nonsense!

Mrs. Burlacombe.  Zurely!  I give ’im a nummit afore ‘e gets up; an’ ’e ’as ’is brekjus reg’lar at nine.  Must feed un up.  He’m on ’is feet all day, gain’ to zee folk that widden want to zee an angel, they’re that busy; an’ when ’e comes in ’e’ll play ’is flute there.  Hem wastin’ away for want of ’is wife.  That’s what ‘tis.  An’ ’im so sweet-spoken, tu, ’tes a pleasure to year ’im—­Never says a word!

Mrs. Bradmere.  Yes, that’s the kind of man who gets treated badly. 
I’m afraid she’s not worthy of him, Mrs. Burlacombe.