[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?

Freman.  Drop o’ eider, clove, an’ dash o’ gin.  There’s blood in the sky to-night.

Burlacombe.  Ah!  We’ll ‘ave fine weather now, with the full o’ the mune.

Freman.  Dust o’ wind an’ a drop or tu, virst, I reckon.  ‘Earl t’ nuse about curate an’ ’is wife?

Godleigh.  No, indeed; an’ don’t yu tell us.  We’m Christians ’ere in this village.

Freman.  ’Tain’t no very Christian nuse, neither.  He’s sent ’er off to th’ doctor.  “Go an’ live with un,” ‘e says; “my blessin’ on ye.”  If ’er’d a-been mine, I’d ’a tuk the whip to ’er.  Tam Jarland’s maid, she yeard it all.  Christian, indeed!  That’s brave Christianity!  “Goo an’ live with un!” ’e told ’er.

Burlacombe.  No, no; that’s, not sense—­a man to say that.  I’ll not ’ear that against a man that bides in my ’ouse.

Freman.  ’Tes sure, I tell ’ee.  The maid was hid-up, scared-like, behind the curtain.  At it they went, and parson ’e says:  “Go,” ’e says, “I won’t kape ’ee from ’im,” ‘e says, “an’ I won’t divorce ’ee, as yu don’t wish it!” They was ’is words, same as Jarland’s maid told my maid, an’ my maid told my missis.  If that’s parson’s talk, ‘tes funny work goin’ to church.