a pause, and she heard him lighting the gas-ring in the sitting-room.
Bunting always made his wife a cup of tea in the morning. He had promised to do this when they first married, and he had never yet broken his word. It was a very little thing and a very usual thing, no doubt, for a kind husband to do, but this morning the knowledge that he was doing it brought tears to Mrs. Bunting’s pale blue eyes. This morning he seemed to be rather longer than usual over the job.
When, at last, he came in with the little tray, Bunting found his wife lying with her face to the wall.
"Here’s your tea, Ellen," he said, and there was a thrill of eager, nay happy, excitement in his voice.
She turned herself round and sat up. "Well?" she asked. "Well? Why don’t you tell me about it?"
"I thought you was asleep," he stammered out. "I thought, Ellen, you never heard nothing."
"How could I have slept through all that din? Of course I heard. Why don’t you tell me?"
"I’ve hardly had time to glance at the paper myself," he said slowly.
"You was reading it just now," she said severely, "for I heard the rustling. You begun reading it before you lit the gas-ring. Don’t tell me! What was that they was shouting about the Edgware Road?"
"Well," said Bunting, "as you do know, I may as well tell you. The Avenger’s moving West—that’s what he’s doing. Last time ’twas King’s Cross—now ’tis the Edgware Road. I said he’d come our way, and he has come our way!"
