DMERE. 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

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 whiskers] What's the old grey mare want, then? 
[With a horse-laugh] 'Er's lukin' awful

wise! GODLEIGH. [Enigmatically] Ah! TRUSTAFORD. [Sit

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