[They have been so absorbed that they bane not noticed the entrance of CLYST, a youth with tousled hair, and a bright, quick, Celtic eye, who stands listening, with a bit of paper in his hand.]
CLYST. Ah! he'm that zurely, Mr. Trustaford.
[He chuckles.]
GODLEIGH. Now, Tim Clyst, if an' in case yu've a-got some scandal on yer tongue, don't yu never unship it here. Yu go up to Rectory where 'twill be more relished-like.
CLYST. [Waving the paper] Will y' give me a drink for this, Mr.
Godleigh? 'Tes rale funny. Aw! 'tes somethin' swats. Butiful
readin'. Poetry. Rale spice. Yu've a luv'ly voice for readin', Mr.
Godleigh.
GODLEIGH. [All ears and twinkle] Aw, what is it then?
CLYST. Ah! Yu want t'know tu much.
[Putting the paper in his pocket.]
[While he is speaking, JIM BERE has entered quietly, with his feeble step and smile, and sits down.]
CLYST. [Kindly] Hello, Jim! Cat come 'ome?