[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!
BURLACOMBE. Aye!
TRUSTAFORD. Off again she was in 'alf an hour. 'Er didn't give poor
old curate much of a chance, after six months.
GODLEIGH. Havin' an engagement elsewhere--No scandal, please,
gentlemen.
BURLACOMBE. [Acidly] Never asked to see my missis. Passed me in
the yard like a stone.
TRUSTAFORD. 'Tes a little bit rumoursome lately about 'er doctor.
GODLEIGH. Ah! he's the favourite. But 'tes a dead secret; Mr.
Trustaford. Don't yu never repate it--there's not a cat don't know
it already!
BURLACOMBE frowns, and TRUSTAFORD utters his laugh. The door is
opened and FREMAN, a dark gipsyish man in the dress of a farmer,
comes in.
GODLEIGH. Don't yu never tell Will Freman what 'e told me!
FREMAN. Avenin'!
TRUSTAFORD.
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