[Tibby, never taking her eyes off Mrs. Bradmere, or the pipe
     from her mouth, has backed stolidly to the door, and vanished.]

Mrs. Bradmere. [Eyeing Godleigh] Now, Godleigh, I’ve come to talk to you.  Half the scandal that goes about the village begins here. [She holds up her finger to check expostulation] No, no—­its no good.  You know the value of scandal to your business far too well.

Godleigh.  Wi’ all respect, m’m, I knows the vally of it to yourn, tu.

Mrs. Bradmere.  What do you mean by that?

Godleigh.  If there weren’t no Rector’s lady there widden’ be no notice taken o’ scandal; an’ if there weren’t no notice taken, twidden be scandal, to my thinkin’.

Mrs. Bradmere. [Winking out a grim little smile] Very well!  You’ve given me your views.  Now for mine.  There’s a piece of scandal going about that’s got to be stopped, Godleigh.  You turn the tap of it off here, or we’ll turn your tap off.  You know me.  See?

Godleigh.  I shouldn’ never presume, m’m, to know a lady.

Mrs. Bradmere.  The Rector’s quite determined, so is Sir Herbert.  Ordinary scandal’s bad enough, but this touches the Church.  While Mr. Strangway remains curate here, there must be no talk about him and his affairs.

Godleigh. [Cocking his eye] I was just thinkin’ how to du it, m’m.  ’Twid be a brave notion to putt the men in chokey, and slit the women’s tongues-like, same as they du in outlandish places, as I’m told.

Mrs. Bradmere.  Don’t talk nonsense, Godleigh; and mind what I say, because I mean it.

Godleigh.  Make yure mind aisy, m’m there’ll be no scandal-monkeyin’ here wi’ my permission.

     [Mrs. Bradmere gives him a keen stare, but seeing him perfectly
     grave, nods her head with approval.]

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.