[She goes hurriedly. BURLACOMBE, with a startled look back,
wavers and makes to follow her, but stops undecided in the inner
doorway. STRANGWAY comes in from the darkness. He turns to the
window and drops overcoat and hat and the church key on the
windowseat, looking about him as men do when too hard driven,
and never fixing his eyes long enough on anything to see it.
BURLACOMBE, closing the door into the house, advances a step.
At the sound STRANGWAY faces round.]

BURLACOMBE. I wanted for yu to know, zurr, that me an' mine 'adn't
nothin' to du wi' that darned fulishness, just now.

STRANGWAY. [With a ghost of a smile] Thank you, Burlacombe. It
doesn't matter. It doesn't matter a bit.

BURLACOMBE. I 'ope yu won't take no notice of it. Like a lot o'
silly bees they get. [After an uneasy pause] Yu'll excuse me
spakin' of this mornin', an' what 'appened. 'Tes a brave pity it
cam' on yu so sudden-like before yu 'ad time to think. 'Tes a sort
o' thing a man shude zet an' chew upon. Certainly 'tes not a bit o'
yuse goin' against human nature. Ef yu don't stand up for yureself
there's no one else not goin' to. 'Tes yure not 'avin' done that 'as
made 'em so rampageous. [Stealing another look at STRANGWAY] Yu'll
excuse me, zurr, spakin' of it, but 'tes amazin' sad to zee a man let
go his own, without a word o' darin'. 'Tea as ef 'e 'ad no passions
like.

STRANGWAY. Look at me, Burlacombe.