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.