Ellen had hardly taken the trouble to listen when he, Bunting, had come back to bed that morning, and told her what the milkman had said.  In fact, she had been quite nasty about it, intimating that she didn’t like hearing about such horrid things.

It was a curious fact that though Mrs. Bunting enjoyed tales of pathos and sentiment, and would listen with frigid amusement to the details of a breach of promise action, she shrank from stories of immorality or of physical violence.  In the old, happy days, when they could afford to buy a paper, aye, and more than one paper daily, Bunting had often had to choke down his interest in some exciting “case” or “mystery” which was affording him pleasant mental relaxation, because any allusion to it sharply angered Ellen.

But now he was at once too dull and too miserable to care how she felt.

Walking away from the window he took a slow, uncertain step towards the door; when there he turned half round, and there came over his close-shaven, round face the rather sly, pleading look with which a child about to do something naughty glances at its parent.

But Mrs. Bunting remained quite still; her thin, narrow shoulders just showed above the back of the chair on which she was sitting, bolt upright, staring before her as if into vacancy.

Bunting turned round, opened the door, and quickly he went out into the dark hall—­they had given up lighting the gas there some time ago—­and opened the front door.

Walking down the small flagged path outside, he flung open the iron gate which gave on to the damp pavement.  But there he hesitated.  The coppers in his pocket seemed to have shrunk in number, and he remembered ruefully how far Ellen could make even four pennies go.

Then a boy ran up to him with a sheaf of evening papers, and Bunting, being sorely tempted—­fell.  “Give me a Sun,” he said roughly, “Sun or Echo!”

But the boy, scarcely stopping to take breath, shook his head.  “Only penny papers left,” he gasped.  “What’ll yer ’ave, sir?”

With an eagerness which was mingled with shame, Bunting drew a penny out of his pocket and took a paper—­it was the Evening Standard—­ from the boy’s hand.

Then, very slowly, he shut the gate and walked back through the raw, cold air, up the flagged path, shivering yet full of eager, joyful anticipation.

Thanks to that penny he had just spent so recklessly he would pass a happy hour, taken, for once, out of his anxious, despondent, miserable self.  It irritated him shrewdly to know that these moments of respite from carking care would not be shared with his poor wife, with careworn, troubled Ellen.

A hot wave of unease, almost of remorse, swept over Bunting.  Ellen would never have spent that penny on herself—­he knew that well enough—­and if it hadn’t been so cold, so foggy, so—­so drizzly, he would have gone out again through the gate and stood under the street lamp to take his pleasure.  He dreaded with a nervous dread the glance of Ellen’s cold, reproving light-blue eye.  That glance would tell him that he had had no business to waste a penny on a paper, and that well he knew it!