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.
[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. [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!