MRS. BRADMERE. My goodness! Yes! The men are all up at the inn.
Go and tell them what I said—it's not to get about. Go at once,
Burlacombe.
BURLACOMBE. Must be a turrable job for 'im, every one's knowin' about 'is wife like this. He'm a proud man tu, I think. 'Tes a funny business altogether!
MRS. BRADMERE. Horrible! Poor fellow! Now, come! Do your best,
Burlacombe!
[BURLACOMBE touches his forelock and goes. MRS. BRADMERE stands quite still, thinking. Then going to the photograph, she stares up at it.]
MRS. BRADMERE. You baggage!
[STRANGWAY has come in noiselessly, and is standing just behind her. She turns, and sees him. There is something so still, so startlingly still in his figure and white face, that she cannot for the moment fond her voice.]
MRS. BRADMERE. [At last] This is most distressing. I'm deeply sorry. [Then, as he does not answer, she goes a step closer] I'm an old woman; and old women must take liberties, you know, or they couldn't get on at all. Come now! Let's try and talk it over calmly and see if we can't put things right.
STRANGWAY. You were very good to come; but I would rather not.
MRS. BRADMERE. I know you're in as grievous trouble as a man can be.
STRANGWAY. Yes.