As he walked back into the little hall, he heard Daisy’s voice—high, voluble, excited—giving her stepmother a long account of the scarlet fever case, and how at first Old Aunt’s neighbours had thought it was not scarlet fever at all, but just nettlerash.
But as Bunting pushed open the door of the sitting-room, there came a note of sharp alarm in his daughter’s voice, and he heard her cry, "Why, Ellen, whatever is the matter? You do look bad!" and his wife’s muffled answer, "Open the window—do."
"’Orrible discovery near King’s Cross—a clue at last!" yelled the newspaper-boys triumphantly.
And then, helplessly, Mrs. Bunting began to laugh. She laughed, and laughed, and laughed, rocking herself to and fro as if in an ecstasy of mirth.
"Why, father, whatever’s the matter with her?"
Daisy looked quite scared.
"She’s in ’sterics—that’s what it is," he said shortly. "I’ll just get the water-jug. Wait a minute!"
Bunting felt very put out. Ellen was ridiculous—that’s what she was, to be so easily upset.
The lodger’s bell suddenly pealed through the quiet house. Either that sound, or maybe the threat of the water-jug, had a magical effect on Mrs. Bunting. She rose to her feet, still shaking all over, but mentally composed.
"I’ll go up," she said a little chokingly. "As for you, child, just run down into the kitchen. You’ll find a piece of pork roasting in the oven. You might start paring the apples for the sauce."
As Mrs. Bunting went upstairs her legs felt as if they
