Mrs. Burlacombe.  In a manner of spakin’ ’tes Mrs. Freman that says ’er Gladys seen her.

Mrs. Bradmere.  That child’s got an eye like a hawk.

Mrs. Burlacombe.  ’Tes wonderful how things du spread.  ’Tesn’t as if us gossiped.  Du seem to grow-like in the naight.

Mrs. Bradmere [To herself] I never lied her.  That Riviera excuse, Mrs. Burlacombe—­Very convenient things, sick mothers.  Mr. Strangway doesn’t know?

Mrs. Burlacombe.  The Lord forbid!  ’Twid send un crazy, I think.  For all he’m so moony an’ gentlelike, I think he’m a terrible passionate man inside.  He’ve a-got a saint in ’im, for zure; but ’tes only ‘alf-baked, in a manner of spakin’.

Mrs. Bradmere.  I shall go and see Mrs. Freman.  There’s been too much of this gossip all the winter.

Mrs. Burlacombe.  ’Tes unfortunate-like ’tes the Fremans.  Freman he’m a gipsy sort of a feller; and he’ve never forgiven Mr. Strangway for spakin’ to ’im about the way he trates ’is ’orses.

Mrs. Bradmere.  Ah!  I’m afraid Mr. Strangway’s not too discreet when his feelings are touched.

Mrs. Burlacombe.  ’E’ve a-got an ’eart so big as the full mune.  But ‘tes no yuse espectin’ tu much o’ this world.  ’Tes a funny place, after that.

Mrs. Bradmere.  Yes, Mrs. Burlacombe; and I shall give some of these good people a rare rap over the knuckles for their want of charity.  For all they look as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths, they’re an un-Christian lot. [Looking very directly at Mrs. Burlacombe] It’s lucky we’ve some hold over the village.  I’m not going to have scandal.  I shall speak to Sir Herbert, and he and the Rector will take steps.

Mrs. Burlacombe. [With covert malice] Aw!  I du hope ’twon’t upset the Rector, an’ ’is fute so poptious!

Mrs. Bradmere. [Grimly] His foot’ll be sound enough to come down sharp.  By the way, will you send me a duck up to the Rectory?

Mrs. Burlacombe. [Glad to get away] Zurely, m’m; at once.  I’ve some luv’ly fat birds.

     [She goes into the house.]

Mrs. Bradmere.  Old puss-cat!

     [She turns to go, and in the doorway encounters a very little,
     red-cheeked girl in a peacock-blue cap, and pink frock, who
     curtsies stolidly.]

Mrs. Bradmere.  Well, Tibby Jarland, what do you want here?  Always sucking something, aren’t you?

[Getting no reply from Tibby Jarland, she passes out.  Tibby comes in, looks round, takes a large sweet out of her mouth, contemplates it, and puts it back again.  Then, in a perfunctory and very stolid fashion, she looks about the floor, as if she had been told to find something.  While she is finding nothing and sucking her sweet, her sister mercy comes in furtively, still frowning and vindictive.]

Mercy.  What!  Haven’t you found it, Tibby?  Get along with ’ee, then!