CHAPTER XVI
Bunting began moving about the room restlessly. He would go to the window; stand there awhile staring out at the people hurrying past; then, coming back to the fireplace, sit down.
But he could not stay long quiet. After a glance at his paper, up he would rise from his chair, and go to the window again.
"I wish you’d stay still," his wife said at last. And then, a few minutes later, "Hadn’t you better put your hat and coat on and go out?" she exclaimed.
And Bunting, with a rather shamed expression, did put on his hat and coat and go out.
As he did so he told himself that, after all, he was but human; it was natural that he should be thrilled and excited by the dreadful, extraordinary thing which had just happened close by. Ellen wasn’t reasonable about such things. How queer and disagreeable she had been that very morning—angry with him because he had gone out to hear what all the row was about, and even more angry when he had come back and said nothing, because he thought it would annoy her to hear about it!
Meanwhile, Mrs. Bunting forced herself to go down again into the kitchen, and as she went through into the low, whitewashed place, a tremor of fear, of quick terror, came over her. She turned and did what she had never
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