[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.

Mrs. Burlacombe. [Plaiting her apron] ’Tesn’t for me to zay that. 
She’m a very pleasant lady.

Mrs. Bradmere Too pleasant.  What’s this story about her being seen in Durford?

Mrs. Burlacombe.  Aw!  I du never year no gossip, m’m.

Mrs. Bradmere. [Drily] Of course not!  But you see the Rector wishes to know.

Mrs. Burlacombe. [Flustered] Well—­folk will talk!  But, as I says to Burlacombe—­“’Tes paltry,” I says; and they only married eighteen months, and Mr. Strangway so devoted-like.  ’Tes nothing but love, with ’im.

Mrs. Bradmere.  Come!

Mrs. Burlacombe.  There’s puzzivantin’ folk as’ll set an’ gossip the feathers off an angel.  But I du never listen.

Mrs. Bradmere Now then, Mrs. Burlacombe?

Mrs. Burlacombe.  Well, they du say as how Dr. Desart over to Durford and Mrs. Strangway was sweethearts afore she wer’ married.

Mrs. Bradmere.  I knew that.  Who was it saw her coming out of Dr. Desart’s house yesterday?