[He turns and after a slow look back at Strangway goes out.]

Strangway. [To himself] Passions!  No passions!  Ha!

     [The outer door is opened and Ivy Burlacombe appears, and,
     seeing him, stops.  Then, coming softly towards him, she speaks
     timidly.]

Ivy.  Oh!  Mr. Strangway, Mrs. Bradmere’s cumin’ from the Rectory.  I ran an’ told ’em.  Oh! ’twas awful.

[Strangway starts, stares at her, and turning on his heel, goes into the house.  Ivy’s face is all puckered, as if she were on the point of tears.  There is a gentle scratching at the door, which has not been quite closed.]

Voice of Gladys. [Whispering] Ivy!  Come on Ivy.  I won’t.

Voice of mercy.  Yu must.  Us can’t du without Yu.

Ivy. [Going to the door] I don’t want to.

Voice of Gladys.  “Naughty maid, she won’t come out,” Ah! du ’ee!

Voice of Cremer.  Tim Clyst an’ Bobbie’s cumin’; us’ll only be six anyway.  Us can’t dance “figure of eight” without yu.

Ivy. [Stamping her foot] I don’t want to dance at all!  I don’t.

Mercy.  Aw!  She’s temper.  Yu can bang on tambourine, then!

Gladys. [Running in] Quick, Ivy!  Here’s the old grey mare cumin’ down the green.  Quick.

     [With whispering and scuffling; gurgling and squeaking, the
     reluctant Ivy’s hand is caught and she is jerked away.  In their
     haste they have left the door open behind them.]

Voice of Mrs. Bradmere. [Outside] Who’s that?

     [She knocks loudly, and rings a bell; then, without waiting,
     comes in through the open door.]

     [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.