What Mrs. Bunting had been looking for—what at last she had found—was the time and place of the inquest which was to be held that day. The hour named was a rather odd time—two o’clock in the afternoon, but, from Mrs. Bunting’s point of view, it was most convenient.
By two o’clock, nay, by half-past one, the lodger would have had his lunch; by hurrying matters a little she and Bunting would have had their dinner, and—and Daisy wasn’t coming home till tea-time.
She got up out of her husband’s chair. "I think you’re right," she said, in a quick, hoarse tone. "I mean about me seeing a doctor, Bunting. I think I will go and see a doctor this very afternoon."
"Wouldn’t you like me to go with you?" he asked.
"No, that I wouldn’t. In fact I wouldn’t go at all if you was to go with me."
"All right," he said vexedly. "Please yourself, my dear; you know best."
"I should think I did know best where my own health is concerned."
Even Bunting was incensed by this lack of gratitude. "’Twas I said, long ago, you ought to go and see the doctor; ’twas you said you wouldn’t!" he exclaimed pugnaciously.
"Well, I’ve never said you was never right, have I? At any rate, I’m going."
"Have you a pain anywhere?" He stared at her with a look of real solicitude on his fat, phlegmatic face.
Somehow Ellen didn’t look right, standing there opposite him. Her shoulders seemed to have shrunk; even her cheeks had fallen in a little. She had never looked so
