[Noting the overcoat and hat on the window-sill she moves across
     to ring the bell.  But as she does so, Mrs. Burlacombe, followed
     by Burlacombe, comes in from the house.]

Mrs. Bradmere This disgraceful business!  Where’s Mr. Strangway?  I see he’s in.

Mrs. Burlacombe.  Yes, m’m, he’m in—­but—­but Burlacombe du zay he’m terrible upset.

Mrs. Bradmere.  I should think so.  I must see him—­at once.

Mrs. Burlacombe.  I doubt bed’s the best place for ‘un, an’ gude ’ot drink.  Burlacombe zays he’m like a man standin’ on the edge of a cliff; and the lasts tipsy o’ wind might throw un over.

Mrs. Bradmere. [To Burlacombe] You’ve seen him, then?

Burlacombe.  Yeas; an’ I don’t like the luke of un—­not a little bit, I don’t.

Mrs. Burlacombe. [Almost to herself] Poor soul; ’e’ve a-’ad to much to try un this yer long time past.  I’ve a-seen ’tis sperrit cumin’ thru ’is body, as yu might zay.  He’s torn to bits, that’s what ’tis.

Burlacombe.  ’Twas a praaper cowardly thing to hiss a man when he’s down.  But ‘twas natural tu, in a manner of spakin’.  But ’tesn’t that troublin’ ’im.  ’Tes in here [touching his forehead], along of his wife, to my thinkin’.  They zay ’e’ve a-known about ’er a-fore she went away.  Think of what ’e’ve ’ad to kape in all this time.  ’Tes enough to drive a man silly after that.  I’ve a-locked my gun up.  I see a man like—­like that once before—­an’ sure enough ’e was dead in the mornin’!

Mrs. Bradmere.  Nonsense, Burlacombe! [To Mrs. Burlacombe] Go and tell him I want to see him—­must see him. [Mrs. Burlacombe goes into the house] And look here, Burlacombe; if we catch any one, man or woman, talking of this outside the village, it’ll be the end of their tenancy, whoever they may be.  Let them all know that.  I’m glad he threw that drunken fellow out of the window, though it was a little——­

Burlacombe.  Aye!  The nuspapers would be praaper glad of that, for a tiddy bit o’ nuse.

Mrs. Bradmere.  My goodness!  Yes!  The men are all up at the inn.  Go and tell them what I said—­it’s not to get about.  Go at once, Burlacombe.

Burlacombe.  Must be a turrable job for ‘im, every one’s knowin’ about ’is wife like this.  He’m a proud man tu, I think.  ’Tes a funny business altogether!

Mrs. Bradmere.  Horrible!  Poor fellow!  Now, come!  Do your best, Burlacombe!

     [Burlacombe touches his forelock and goes.  Mrs. Bradmere stands
     quite still, thinking.  Then going to the photograph, she stares
     up at it.]

Mrs. Bradmere.  You baggage!