Original subtitles

Tell the gentleman that it's too late.

Too bloody late.

Thank you.

-The Dover train booked through to Paris. Right, sir.

I wish you every happiness, Chrissie.

Marrying in Paris is a backdoor way out of it.

-What do they say at the office? -Sylvia's mother was married in Paris.

-I let it be known. -Thank you for that, Vinnie.

But she's bitched me, old man.

I don't even know if the child is mine.

Tea tray at 6:30.

Yes, madam. Good night, madam.

Sylvia.

Sylvia!

Mr. Drake. -Sylvia, goddamn you.

-I won't be tr-- -Quite so.

Thank you, Evie.

Won't your wife be wondering where you are?

I won't be sent away like an errand boy.

This is not fair and you're drunk.

Sylvia.

-Don't do this. -What, save myself from ruin?

I'm pregnant, you fool.

Whatever you want, it can't be that ox.

Heh, what I want is to die.

Death is what l--

Oh, Gerald, don't.

Darling, don't. lt's not fair.

Don't--

I cut away early from a ghastly weekend party.

-Are you going up to town? -Yes.

My name is Tietjens.

I'm Sylvia Satterthwaite.

I know.

We will take a small house in Knightsbridge, Lowndes Street.

-Her mother will live with us. -Oh.

Mrs. Satterthwaite has contributed handsomely.

I see.

I haven't seen that pretty box before.

Gerald Drake gave it to me.

Have you no shame on your wedding day?

When did he give it to you?

Last night.

You're a lying devil to say such a thing.

Didn't l see her with it on the Channel ferry?

So you're going to give me away twice in one morning?

-Did Father send word? -He sent me.

-And my mother? -Your mother's soft. Brought you up soft.

Not your fault.

Second wife, late child and no Yorkshire woman. Bad combination.

-My mother is Yorkshire. -Oh, South Riding by a whisker.

-Will you give me a cigarette? -I will not give you a cigarette.

And I'm glad your father's dead not to know today's work.

-I'm sorry for your mother. -Well, don't be.

Christopher Tietjens is a godsend.

A godsend is one thing that he is not.

So you get yourself trapped by a papist bitch carrying a baby, heh.

Yes, l will marry now.

You're next after me, and after you...

...is that whore's child who'll be the 14th Tietjens of Groby.

One heard things about you. That you were a wrong 'un.

But better a wrong 'un than a mug.

Yes, l suppose I was a mug.

And yet there's something glorious about her.

Let Marchant go.

What's the matter, old fellow, hmm?

-We had a nasty dream, didn't we? -Oh.

-Now lie down. -No, no.

I know what to do.

Glass of warm milk, Marchie.

That's the best thing for bad dreams.

Now...

...a little conversation till we're sleepy.

That's what l do.

I had bad dreams sometimes when l was little.

See there?

I could nearly touch Groby Tree from the night nursery window.

There's all sorts of things hanging on the tree to bring good luck.

And there's a wishing well in the stable yard.

They say it's twice as deep as Groby Tree is high.

You can drop a penny in it and make a wish.

Shall I tell you how long it falls?

Well, I used to count it as long as this:

One...

...two...

...three...

...four...

...five...

...six...

...seven...

...eight...

...nine...

...ten.

-Soft. -Oh, Mr. Christopher.

Telegram, sir. -Thank you, Bridget.

Uh, while you're there, please, Bridget, teapot.

Yes, ma'am.

Maisie Mulgrew wishes it to be known...

...that she's enjoying a sexual connection with Captain W.M. O'Donnell.

What?

No, china.

You, pulling the strings of the shower bath.

Heh.

"The honorable Mrs. Frederick Mulgrew, whose husband, we hear...

...is spoken of for the Vienna embassy...

...enjoys the polo with Captain W.M. O'Donnell."

That's Maisie getting even with Frederick Mulgrew...

-...for his fling with Lady Egret. -You have no reason to say so.

Thank you, Bridget. Darjeeling.

And Mr. Tietjens needs more coffee, I expect.

Oh, I don't think Maisie's got the gumption to go through with it.

But the readers like a whiff of sex coming off our crowd.

Like a vapor.

Like the steam on the water at the crocodile house at the zoo.

I'm bored.

Only you could be bored with the end of the world upon us.

-Hmm, who says? -I says.

The Prime Minister has asked the king to create 400 Liberal peers...

...so the working classes can have free medicines.

Oh.

But l see the Association of Domestic Servants is against the Insurance Bill.

-Why would that be, l wonder? -Now's your chance to ask. Thank you.

Well, go on, then. -Well, Bridget?

-I'm sure l don't know, sir. -Well, I'm sure l do.

It is because the National Insurance Bill violates that beautiful intimacy...

...that exists between the servant and their mistress.

The Association of Domestic Servants is Tory through and through.

It is the duty of the employers to look after the welfare of their employees...

-...and those who don't should go to prison. -Who thinks that?

I'm the last except for a few dukes, like your cousin, Westershire.

Do you wonder I can't bear him?

No, you married above your intellect and don't take kindly to disadvantage.

However, the new Liberal peers won't be necessary.

The upper house will cave in and vote to make itself irrelevant.

And is that the end of the world?

No, the world ended long ago in the 1 8th century.

Do you know what he's doing?

He's making corrections in the Encyclopedia Britannica.

Heh, if l'd killed him, no jury would convict.

Sylvia, you're behaving like a child.

Look, it's him with the purple Rolls.

Votes for women! Deeds, not words!

You've been giving the mare less licorice in her mash.

-Told you she'd go better. -Trust you to remember, sir. Thank you.

Good morning.

-Good morning. -Good morning, sir.

Tietjens, did you receive my telegram?

Good morning to you too, Macmaster. You looked over my figures?

Chief will have my head if l give them to him.

Well, don't, then. You asked for my help.

And you weighted the calculations as though people--

Became ill according to what they have to pay for medical treatment?

They do. lt will ruin the exchequer and I intend Sir Reginald to know it.

WOSuppose you could bolt with a new man every week and no questions asked.

Ripping. Can l have this?

No.

But the question is, how long would it stay ripping...

...before you're simply yawning to get back to your husband?

-How long? -It's not a riddle, Sylvia. I'm asking.

Hmm. Heh, heh.

Well, it would have to be weekends only.

One would still need a home, a husband for show midweek...

...and a place to store one's maid. I couldn't do without Hullo Central.

Mrs. Tietjens is not at home.

Oh, but she said....

Sylvia, you're such a rotter.

Well, I'm not dressed for a picnic.

Anyway, I've realized there's no point in a fling...

...if one's husband doesn't notice.

-I'd go. -It's no use. Potty loves me.

He wants me to leave Christopher and go abroad with him, heh.

Oh, I'd like to shake him.

-Who? -My husband, of course.

Shake some reaction out of that great lump.

Do you happen to have a cigarette? -Yes, of course.

Thank you.

Now look here. Don't be obtuse, Tietjens.

Damn it, man, it's the department's duty to support Waterhouse...

...in making his case to the house. You understand?

The minister has to show that the figures for the Insurance Bill balance.

They won't. And l should have thought it was this department's duty to tell him so.

Tietjens, you're the cleverest young man in London, Macmaster says...

...and I'm inclined to believe him.

But he and l, heh, with our blunt instruments...

...have managed to grasp something that you cannot.

Why, thank you, Sir Reginald.

Which is, that if they don't get what they require from you...

...they'll put some competition wallah head clerk on it and take our credit from us.

I simply wished you to be aware of the facts.

There's no difficulty in adjusting the calculations...

...to produce a more congenial result.

I can let Macmaster have it in the hour and 1 0 minutes remaining...

...but l insist on his taking the credit for it.

Good man.

Votes for women! It's him.

-It's Waterhouse. That's Waterhouse.

What the devil is going on here?

Keep moving, sir. This way, please. Excuse me.

He came through without a scratch. Thanks, Bertram.

My fault for inviting a Liberal.

Christmas spirit, you know?

-Christopher, there you are at last. -Yes, sorry.

-You look lovely. -You look like thunder.

You don't mind that I let Potty bring me ahead?

No, of course not.

-Will you dance? -I would if that were dancing.

You save me one when there's a tune.

WOYou're a writer? -Ah, yes, a little awe of the critic.

-My book on Rossetti will be-- Macmaster.

-How rude. -That fellow over there with Sandbach...

...he's the Right Honorable Stephen Waterhouse.

He's the swine that made us fake that schedule at the office.

-I'm gonna have a word with him. -For God's sake, Chrissie.

WOThose suffragettes, l would have them whipped till they bled.

Spank them, that's what l say.

What have we come to when a government minister...

...can't go anywhere without a policeman?

Perhaps if the prime minister kept his promise...

...to address women's concerns after summer recess--

-My fellow-- -The women kept their promise...

...to stop protesting while police had their hands full with the coronation.

-Give the PM a chit. Quite right.

Tietjens, hark to my brother-in-law, the general.

Tietjens?

Oh-ho, you must be the genius. Allow me to thank you.

We couldn't have got the lnsurance Bill before the house...

...till the next session without your figures.

-You're taking the credit from Macmaster. -Oh, no. We know who to thank.

-Sir Reginald let it out. WOMacmaster?

He the fellow you brought with you?

Who are his people?

His father was a shipping clerk in Edinburgh.

Well.

Is he angry with me?

Angry with his wife, l expect. We got the brunt.

Hmm.

WONo. Yes.

-Ha, ha, no, Potty. -Don't call me Potty.

But it suits you, ha, ha.

-Heh, ha, ha. -Will you come away with me?

Well, I might one day.

Sylvia has gone off with that fellow...

...Perowne.

I'm letting Lowndes Street, warehousing the furniture.

I'm taking Michael to my sister, Effie.

She's married to a vicar who has one of our livings. Marchant will go with him.

-So you'll be wanting your old rooms? -Mm-hm.

One...

...two...

...three...

It's your Aunt Effie. ...four...

...five...

...six.

Walk on.

Trot on.

WOPoor child, living like an orphan with his Aunt Effie.

Bear up, old girl.

You'll be nearer at hand now for Michael.

Your wife has shamed you both.

All of us.

-You will divorce? -No.

Only a blackguard would submit his wife to that.

Mrs. Satterthwaite has established herself at a German spa...

...so it may be said that Sylvia has gone abroad to nurse her.

Her mother is a bitch, but a sensible one.

Hmm, the motor plow didn't serve.

It's all coming.

He's someone called Thurston. I met him somewhere.

-He won't gossip. -Don't care if he does.

Heh, well, thank you very much.

What does it matter? Now or later.

We're not going to hide forever.

-Well, that's the thing, Potty. -What thing?

It's not forever.

Yes, it is, heh.

-I hope you're not going to behave badly. -About what?

About my going back before it's too late.

Oh, no, you're not.

What are you talking about?

-I miss my husband, heh. -No, you don't.

-You called him "a great lump of wood." -Oh, he is.

I often want to kill him just to see if there's any blood in him.

I'm permanently angry with him.

But he's spoiled me for any other decently groomed man in London.

He knows everything about everything.

It's the difference between being with a grown man...

...and trying to entertain a schoolboy.

But you love me.

Don't you?

Uh, I overlooked you.

Your dullness and not knowing French and drinking too much or too little.

And, oh, l don't know. Everything, really...

...from being all over me the moment we were on the train...

... to sulking if l'm not all over you.

Especially that side of things, heh.

It became like reading a book you've read before, heh.

Why can't one get a man to go away with one and be just...

...light comedy?

I say, you're not going to kill yourself, I hope, Potty.

I want you to swear on your St. Anthony that you won't leave me.

I'll do no such thing.

Then l'll kill you if you try.

The French understand these things.

And these hotels one's been staying in, the notepaper is simply shaming.

A weekend on the golf links might do me some good.

Hobnobbing with our masters, heh.

I'll change into my golfing togs when we get to our digs.

One never knows who might be on the train.

Mr. Sandbach, MP, going down to his constituency, ha, ha.

Ah.

The proofs of my monograph.

Sylvia asks me to take her back.

She has joined her mother in Germany.

Will you take her back?

I imagine so.

There is the child to consider.

Marchant says he's beginning to talk like a farmer's boy already.

But l shan't have a house again.

There's a certain discredit that attaches itself to a cuckold quite properly.

Anything beyond a flat looks like impudence in a man who can't keep his wife.

I wish you'd divorce her.

Drag her through the mud.

For a gentlemen, there is such a thing as....

Call it parade.

And if you met someone you wanted to marry?

It would change nothing. I stand for monogamy.

-You-- -I, monogamy and chastity.

And for not talking about it.

Better far tho' hearts may break Bid farewell for aye

Lest thy sad eyes, meeting mine Tempt my soul away

That's great poetry.

That is your obese poet painter talking about it...

...in language like congealed bacon fat.

-You have a way of putting things. -Huh, I haven't.

If I had, it would make it better for me. Here.

"Accept resumption yoke on condition child stay with sister Effie and Anglican.

Wire if acceptable."

I, for one, am sorry.

Hmm.

She must have a way of putting things.

Heh, she has.

"l am now ready to return to you if l can keep Hullo Central...

...there being no one else I can bear to have near me...

...when l retire for the night." That's all.

She should be the consort of....

I don't know, of the Viceroy of lndia.

We'll get in a round of golf today.

Tomorrow we're breakfasting with the rector who helped me with my book.

Of course he did.

The Reverend Duchemin who hosted those famous breakfasts at Cambridge?

He's no longer at Cambridge. He has a rectory near Rye.

Ah.

Lady Claudine says, "Come and pick a bone at Mountby."

You too, Macmaster.

Thank you, l won't. Macmaster would be delighted.

Oh, you're the great Macmaster.

That's very good of you to say, Mr. Sandbach.

No, the caddy heard tell.

-Plus one at North Berwick. Good God.

Is that Waterhouse up ahead?

Good shot, sir.

Hmm.

Hmm.

Get Chrissie back to Sylvia as quick as you can.

Believe me, Sylvia is a splendid girl. Straight as a die.

Takes her fences clean.

Chrissie must have been running after the skirts.

-No? -No.

l daresay a little, no? -No.

It will be resented.

Half the houses in London will be closed to him.

So do what you can.

Hooked it, heh.

I loathe this game.

Why do you play, then?

Macmaster has no one else.

Votes for women!

Votes for women!

-Votes for women! Oye.

-Come here, you. Votes for women.

Is it our blood you want before you give in?

Stop! Stop!

-Stop where you are! -Run, Gertie! Votes for women!

-Votes for women! Run, Gertie!

By Jove, Ms. Wannop.

Suffragettes.

Get off.

You're under arrest!

Valentine!

I say, sorry to spoil your shot.

Go and see that they don't hurt Gertie. I've lost her.

-You've been demonstrating. -Well, of course we have.

But you won't see a girl be manhandled.

There looked to be some beasts among them. A regular rat hunt.

Valentine. -And Gertie can't run.

Valentine! -You cut away, then. I'll look after Gertie.

-No, I'll come with you. -Clear out.

Unless you want to go to jail.

Tallyho! Help!

Run!

Strip the bitch naked!

Strip the bitch stark naked! MAN 2 : Stop. Stop. Stop.

Stop! Stop!

Ugh, stop! Stop!

You couldn't have done more, officer.

-No. -I expect you're a bit shaken.

Anyone would be. Thank you, sir, heh.

Run, Gertie.

We've got them! We've got them!

You'll have to go around by Camber railway bridge.

Idiot.

I refuse to play with you.

I've a mind to issue a warrant for your arrest for obstructing justice.

You can't, you're not a borough magistrate. Look it up.

Chrissie, you are the bloody limit.

The bobby didn't want to arrest the girls. He was yearning not to.

Was that girl your...?

A friend of yours? Had you arranged it with her?

If it was the Wannop girl...

...if the woman that's come between you and Sylvia, damn it, is our little suffragette...

-Good God. -...put her back, Chrissie.

I give you my word.

I say, they're all whores.

I beg your pardon if you like the Wannop girl.

Her father was a great friend of your father's.

Of course, l remember.

Professor Wannop, the classicist.

Didn't leave a farthing. And there's a son at Eton.

The widow and her daughter have a deuced hard row to hoe.

I know Claudine takes them all the peaches she can cadge out of Paul's gardener.

Perhaps you feel sorry for her. ls that it?

I think that's enough confusion to be going on with.

But you should know Mrs. Satterthwaite has much recovered at her German spa...

...and I'm expecting to go over in a day or two to bring Sylvia and her mother home.

Good boy.

Kiss her fingertips for me. She's the real thing.

You lucky beggar.

The littleness of it...

...our drawing-room comedy of sex obsession.

When the war comes, it'll blow right through it, thank God.

War is impossible at any rate with this country in it.

Is that what they said at your dinner with the Tories?

In two years, around the grouse shooting, there'll be a European war...

-...with Britain plumb in the middle of it. -The Tietjens exactitude.

-Where is your evidence? -In the office.

It's late.

We're expected at the Duchemins' breakfast.

If you haven't been arrested.

No, I gave the policeman a £5 note from that swine of a cabinet minister.

I shouldn't call him that. He gave me dinner.

Besides which he's a decent fellow.

So it's hands off the Wannop girl.

The fair one, Ms. Valentine Wannop.

Holder of the quarter-mile, half-mile, high jump and long jump records...

...for East Sussex and housemaid typewriter for her mother the novelist.

The other one's not local. Probably London.

Never underestimate the Sussex constabulary.

Oh, and it's generally believed that Ms. Wannop and l are in cahoots, if not worse.

Why do you look like that?

Because l'm waiting for my wife to wire me to fetch her home.

This is what l look like.

There are times when a woman hates a man...

...even a very good man as my husband was.

I have walked behind a man's back and nearly screamed with a desire...

...to sink my nails into the veins of his neck, and Sylvia has got it worse than l.

If the woman, as the Church directs, would have children and live decent--

-But Sylvia's had a child. -Whose?

-That blackguard Drake's, wasn't it? -It was probably Drake's.

I am here, you know.

I am done with men.

Think of all the ruin that child has meant for me.

And Christopher is perfectly soppy about him.

You don't deserve your husband anyway.

Can't imagine why he sent that telegram. "Resume yoke," indeed.

He sent it out of lordly, dull, full-dress consideration...

...that drives me distracted.

He couldn't write me a letter because he'd have to put "dear Sylvia," and I'm not.

He's that precise sort of imbecile.

I'll settle down by his side and I'll be chaste.

I've made up my mind to it.

I'll be bored stiff for the rest of my life except for one thing:

I can torment that man, and l'll do it, for all the times he's tormented me.

I've come from Normandy without sleep, you see, heh.

I'll tell them downstairs to simply telegraph Christopher, righto.

l'll send the Reverend Duchemin a signed copy of my book.

His word still carries weight.

Well, sucking up to Duchemin was always the price...

...for kedgeree and poached eggs. Heh.

Welcome, welcome.

I'm the curate here, heh.

Whoa, whoa!

Thank you. Thank you. -Good boy.

Ups-a-daisy.

-My name is Horsley, heh. -Macmaster.

Where did you get this job lot?

Don't you know you've got a 1 3-hands pony harness on a 1 6-and-a-half-hands horse?

Let that bit out three holes. It's tearing the animal's tongue in half.

I'm not sure it's really playing the game, asking you to be here.

If your mother knew--

Mother wanted to come with me when l told her it was to meet a critic.

But l got away in the carriage.

That's perfect. Nobody will even see your husband.

I've told Duchemin's keeper to keep him out till a quarter past.

I've set a place for your Gertie, but never mind.

We've got the old curate's sister staying with us, Ms. Fox...

...and she's stone deaf, heh.

So an empty chair next to her makes no difference.

This way.

The ladies will be in here.

We arrived together, heh, heh.

-Ms. Fox. -Good morning. I'm Macmaster.

We're living in a state of siege, ladies, heh.

lt's so good of you to come. -It's a pleasure. Thank you for having me.

-Christopher Tietjens. -A pleasure, indeed.

And you must be the famous Vincent Macmaster.

Mr. Sandbach, MP....

My pleasure, ma'am. l'm Edith Duchemin.

-And this is Ms. Wannop. Ms. Wannop.

Gentlemen, you must be tired from your journey.

Allow me to show you to your seats.

-Thank you. -You here, Mr. Tietjens, I thought.

-Thank you. -And here for you, Mr. Macmaster.

And I next to you.

Drink had been taken, heh.

If you're hungry there's.... Well, l hope you'll find something to your liking.

Thank you. l will.

Lord Edward Campion is said to have egged them on.

He's putting up at Lady Claudine's for royal duties at Dover.

General Campion is taking....

I must thank you for yesterday.

Laying the Buffs' colors on the Order of St. Peter's tomorrow morning.

Uh, Mrs. Wannop, what a pleasant surprise.

Mother. -Which is Mr. Macmaster, the critic?

Oh.

Are you Mr. Macmaster, the critic?

-I'm Macmaster. -Oh.

Mr. Macmaster, my new book is coming out on Tuesday.

-Mother, what have you done with Gertie? -She's lying low in the attic.

Come with me. -High, rather.

It will be of interest to you to hear about my book.

To you journalists, a little inside information is always--

-I'm not a journalist. -Well, a critic.

Heh, I don't review books. I'm not a critic in the sense--

Of course, you are.

I write for the Critical Quarterlies.

-Mr. Macmaster. -Oh, the Critical Quarterlies.

Mr. Horsley, sit Mrs. Wannop next to you and feed her.

That is exactly what my book needs, a good, long, deep--

Ups-a-daisy. That's the reverend's chair.

The Critical Quarterlies have shown a deplorable lack of interest...

-...serious interest-- That's better, heh.

Would you allow me to help you?

Oh, uh, a little caviar, a peach.

I'm afraid l've....

I'm afraid l must....

You see, my husband--

I beg you, dear lady, do not concern yourself.

I think this party is very badly arranged.

Very bad management.

Perhaps not. Sometimes you'd never know he was....

One understands.

Merely to spend a fleeting hour in these perfect surroundings.

You know the lines:

"As when the swallow gliding from lofty portal to lofty portal...

...out of the dark and into the light and out again."

Yes, it takes a poet.

I have a message for you from Mr. Waterhouse.

I told him l didn't know you and didn't expect to see you.

He didn't believe me.

If it's to invite me for a chat...

...I don't intend to place myself in the way of his condescension.

No, not that. He wanted you to know that there were no charges against you.

Well, what about Gertie?

Gertie too, as far as yesterday is concerned.

But l'd get her out from your attic if she's on the run from the Metropolitan Police...

...which she is.

Parry.

Parry?

Good God, it's Parry, the Bermondsey light middleweight.

Mr. Macmaster seems to know him too.

He taught me to box at Cambridge.

Good morning, doctor.

-I'm not a doc-- -Yes.

Yes.

The stethoscope packed in the hat left in the hall.

And your friend, another medical man?

Takes two doctors, of course, to certify a lunatic.

Oh, Parry, sole fillets. Very good.

-Kidneys to follow. Very good, sir.

I'm Macmaster.

We corresponded and you invited me for breakfast.

Of course I did. Macmaster, the budding critic.

And friend. Macmaster and friend for breakfast.

Not medical men.

But you look tired.

Worn.

Worn out.

I detect the pallor of self-abuse.

Don't turn around. Vincent Macmaster is quite capable.

Post coitum tristia.

Ah, the sorrows of spent semen. Boys or girls, in your case?

Sir, your fish is getting cold. I'll bring the kidneys.

If he'll eat a little, it brings the blood down from the head.

Oh, forgive. It's dreadful for you.

My dear lady, please, don't worry. It's what I'm for.

You good man.

Of course, the daughter of Professor Wannop would know her Latin.

I can stop this. Shall I?

Yes. Yes, anything.

The lament of the wife of the boy-buggerer.

My dear, l have an asshole too.

Get him out the way you beat Kid Cantor at Hackney Baths.

I have often had to refer my wife to Marcus 1 1 :43.

"Alas, my dear, with women it's more a case of having two--"

You all right, sir?

Time to write your sermon, sir.

All right, get up.

Get up. Ready? Here we go.

Here we go, sir.

My dear lady, it's all over now, I assure you.

Please, forgive.

You can never respect me.

You're the bravest woman l know.

Goodbye.

This isn't the rig for you, Mrs. Wannop.

A pony and a basketwork chaise, that's the trap for ladies.

-She'll do well for the work tonight. -Tonight?

-Mr. Tietjens means Gertie. Don't you? -Yes.

Do you know somewhere Gertie can wait it out?

They'll be watching the trains at Ashford Junction.

-Oh, you'll help? -I will not see you incommoded.

You've written the only novel since the 1 8th century...

...I've not had to correct in the margins.

Well.

Uh, um, what shall we do with Gertie?

Bring her over. Only don't pull at her mouth. She'll come easy.

Oh, he is a beast. You don't know when he's not talking about Gertie.

l'll miss you, Gertie. See you in London.

She'll be all right.

You should know, Ms. Wannop, we are being talked about.

That will teach you not to speak to strange men on golf courses.

It doesn't matter. lt really doesn't matter. You'll live it down.

The only thing that matters is to do good work.

It's true.

I ought not to care what those swine say about me, but I do.

And I care about what they say about you.

Listen.

-A lark. -Not that.

It was a nightingale.

It was the lark, the herald of the morn. No nightingale.

Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

There. He sounds hoarse now.

Their song changes in June.

We're 30 miles from Brede and six and a half miles from...

...something like "Uddlemere."

The lamp went out.

Ground fog.

We are on the road to Uddlemere.

Mind telling me if you know this road at all?

-It's Udimore, not Uddlemere. -So it is the right road, then.

-Go on. -Is it?

You wouldn't let the mare go on another five steps if it wasn't. You're soft on her.

Not as soft as you.

You're not so dreadfully ugly really.

Don't mind me. l'm....

I'm so happy. I'm so happy.

The next crossroads is Grandfather's Wantways.

An old gentleman used to sit there called Gran'fer Finn.

Every Tenterden Market day he sold fleed cakes from a basket to the carts going by.

Tenterden Market was abolished in 1 845, done in by the repeal of the Corn Laws.

Why do you suppose l make a collection of obsolescent facts?

Because you do.

You make Toryism out of them. I thought your type were all in museums.

You want to be an English country gentleman...

...spinning principles out of quaintness and letting the country go to hell.

You won't stir a finger except to say, "I told you so."

Where are you?

I wish you'd make some noise.

Do you Ken John Peel With his coat so gray?

Do you ken John Peel At the break of day?

What are you doing? -Trying the other side.

Where are you?

Do you Ken John Peel Far, far away?

With his hounds and his horn In the morning

We're nearly home.

I found a milestone. We're just above Mountby.

You can go on now.

-Walk on. -Mountby Drive is 1 00 yards.

Just pull to the left or the horse will walk straight up to the house.

And look, the sun.

It's the beginning of the longest day. The summer solstice.

Sistere and sol, because the sun seems to stand still.

-We got through the night. -Ms. Wannop....

Damn Mountby.

My dear, it couldn't have lasted forever.

But you're a good man.

Very clever.

You will make it through.

Whoa, whoa.

Whoa, whoa, whoa!

Whoa, girl.

She's cut badly. Come quick.

Red stocking from the flank downwards.

Take off your petticoat.

Tear it into strips.

We need it for bandages.

Jump the hedge.

I've seen you jump.

Damn you. Go away.

I went past to get you out of Claudine's sight.

You'll have to pay for the horse.

-Why should l? -For not sounding your horn.

You drove right into my drive.

-Besides, I did. -No, you didn't.

What am I to tell my sister? I believe she saw the girl.

Go away. Tell her what you like.

-But you'll pay for her horse. -I'm damned if l will.

Send out the horse ambulance when you go through Rye.

There's your sister getting out.

Nobody is dead.

-Who was that with Tietjens? Never you mind.

Get in the car. We'll be late.

Why did you try to quarrel with the general?

You'll need a quarrel with him.

It'll account for Lady Claudine's spreading slander.

You think of everything when most men wouldn't be able to think at all.

Tell me about Groby.

It's older than Protestantism.

The Groby Great Tree is the symbol of the Yorkshire Tietjens.

It's a big cedar.

The crown darkens our topmost windows and the roots undermine our foundations.

So one of them will have to go...

...house or tree, one day.

If I ever take you there....

My dear...

...you'll never take me to Groby.

It's the postmaster's boy.

He can take you home.

Well, it's been perhaps a short acquaintance...

...but l think you're the splendidest--

Whoa, whoa!

You, there. You, stop there.

-Good morning, Jimmy. JIMMY: Morning, Ms. Wannop.

I was just on my way to your cottage.

There's a telegram redirected care of Wannop. Must be Macmaster.

You're to take Ms. Wannop home.

She's her mother's breakfast to see to.

Go on.

Damn near 40 miles in one night.

You lost a lot of blood.

I let you down, old girl, didn't l?