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!

Burlacombe.  Aye!

Trustaford.  Off again she was in ’alf an hour.  ’Er didn’t give poor old curate much of a chance, after six months.

Godleigh.  Havin’ an engagement elsewhere—­No scandal, please, gentlemen.

Burlacombe. [Acidly] Never asked to see my missis.  Passed me in the yard like a stone.

Trustaford.  ’Tes a little bit rumoursome lately about ’er doctor.

Godleigh.  Ah! he’s the favourite.  But ’tes a dead secret; Mr. Trustaford.  Don’t yu never repate it—­there’s not a cat don’t know it already!

Burlacombe frowns, and Trustaford utters his laugh.  The door is opened and Freman, a dark gipsyish man in the dress of a farmer, comes in.

Godleigh.  Don’t yu never tell Will Freman what ’e told me!

Freman.  Avenin’!

Trustaford.  Avenin’, Will; what’s yure glass o’ trouble?