[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.

[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