Burlacombe.  Aye!  The nuspapers would be praaper glad of that, for a tiddy bit o’ nuse.

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.

Mrs. Bradmere. [With a little sound of sympathy] What are you—­ thirty-five?  I’m sixty-eight if I’m a day—­old enough to be your mother.  I can feel what you must have been through all these months, I can indeed.  But you know you’ve gone the wrong way to work.  We aren’t angels down here below!  And a son of the Church can’t act as if for himself alone.  The eyes of every one are on him.

Strangway. [Taking the church key from the window.] Take this, please.

Mrs. Bradmere.  No, no, no!  Jarland deserved all he got.  You had great provocation.

Strangway.  It’s not Jarland. [Holding out the key] Please take it to the Rector.  I beg his forgiveness. [Touching his breast] There’s too much I can’t speak of—­can’t make plain.  Take it to him, please.

Mrs. Bradmere.  Mr. Strangway—­I don’t accept this.  I am sure my husband—­the Church—­will never accept——­

Strangway.  Take it!

Mrs. Bradmere. [Almost unconsciously taking it] Mind!  We don’t accept it.  You must come and talk to the Rector to-morrow.  You’re overwrought.  You’ll see it all in another light, then.

Strangway. [With a strange smile] Perhaps. [Lifting the blind] Beautiful night!  Couldn’t be more beautiful!