MRS. BRADMERE. Don't talk nonsense, Godleigh; and mind what I say, because I mean it.
GODLEIGH. Make yure mind aisy, m'm there'll be no scandal-monkeyin' here wi' my permission.
[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.