"The parson and 'is wife."
"Very good, for a start," commented Bill.
"'Tisn't good at all," Alf retorted hotly. "I tell you, Bill Grant...."
"Montmorency," inserted Bill in gentle parenthesis.
" ... It's all up."
"What's all up?"
"We are. This place. It won't do. I've—I've mucked it all up, I s'pose. Comes of you not bein' there."
"That's right. Put it all on to me! I've got to trot round like a bloomin' nursemaid, 'ave I, to keep you out of mischief. What 'ave you been an' done, any'ow?
"This 'ere parson's wife, she's a fair terror. She thinks we ain't respectable, an' she's off to get ole Sir FitzPeter to fire us out of 'ere."
"'E can't."