Mrs. Burlacombe.  Zurely!  I give ’im a nummit afore ‘e gets up; an’ ’e ’as ’is brekjus reg’lar at nine.  Must feed un up.  He’m on ’is feet all day, gain’ to zee folk that widden want to zee an angel, they’re that busy; an’ when ’e comes in ’e’ll play ’is flute there.  Hem wastin’ away for want of ’is wife.  That’s what ‘tis.  An’ ’im so sweet-spoken, tu, ’tes a pleasure to year ’im—­Never says a word!

Mrs. Bradmere.  Yes, that’s the kind of man who gets treated badly. 
I’m afraid she’s not worthy of him, Mrs. Burlacombe.

Mrs. Burlacombe. [Plaiting her apron] ’Tesn’t for me to zay that. 
She’m a very pleasant lady.

Mrs. Bradmere Too pleasant.  What’s this story about her being seen in Durford?

Mrs. Burlacombe.  Aw!  I du never year no gossip, m’m.

Mrs. Bradmere. [Drily] Of course not!  But you see the Rector wishes to know.

Mrs. Burlacombe. [Flustered] Well—­folk will talk!  But, as I says to Burlacombe—­“’Tes paltry,” I says; and they only married eighteen months, and Mr. Strangway so devoted-like.  ’Tes nothing but love, with ’im.

Mrs. Bradmere.  Come!

Mrs. Burlacombe.  There’s puzzivantin’ folk as’ll set an’ gossip the feathers off an angel.  But I du never listen.

Mrs. Bradmere Now then, Mrs. Burlacombe?

Mrs. Burlacombe.  Well, they du say as how Dr. Desart over to Durford and Mrs. Strangway was sweethearts afore she wer’ married.

Mrs. Bradmere.  I knew that.  Who was it saw her coming out of Dr. Desart’s house yesterday?

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.