"No fear of that!" Bunting chuckled. And then a new thought struck him. "Ain’t you afraid of waking the lodger?" he called out.
"Mr. Sleuth slept most of yesterday, and all last night," she answered quickly. "As it is, I study him over-much; it’s a long, long time since I’ve done this staircase down."
All the time she was engaged in doing the hall, Mrs. Bunting left the sitting-room door wide open.
That was a queer thing of her to do, but Bunting didn’t like to get up and shut her out, as it were. Still, try as he would, he couldn’t read with any comfort while all that noise was going on. He had never known Ellen make such a lot of noise before. Once or twice he looked up and frowned rather crossly.
There came a sudden silence, and he was startled to see that. Ellen was standing in the doorway, staring at him, doing nothing.
"Come in," he said, "do! Ain’t you finished yet?"
"I was only resting a minute," she said. "You don’t tell me nothing. I’d like to know if there’s anything—I mean anything new—in the paper this morning."
She spoke in a muffled voice, almost as if she were ashamed of her unusual curiosity; and her look of fatigue, of pallor, made Bunting suddenly uneasy. "Come in—do!" he repeated sharply. "You’ve done quite enough—and before breakfast, too. ’Tain’t necessary. Come in and shut that door."
He spoke authoritatively, and his wife, for a wonder, obeyed him.
She came in, and did what she had never done before
