"Only my husband, sir. He went out to buy a paper a few minutes
ago, and the cold just caught him, I suppose."

"Your husband--?" he looked at her intently, suspiciously. "What
--what, may I ask, is your husband's occupation?"

Mrs. Bunting drew herself up. The question as to Bunting's
occupation was no one's business but theirs. Still, it wouldn't do
for her to show offence. "He goes out waiting," she said stiffly.
"He was a gentleman's servant, sir. He could, of course, valet you
should you require him to do so."

And then she turned and led the way up the steep, narrow staircase.

At the top of the first flight of stairs was what Mrs. Bunting, to
herself, called the drawing-room floor. It consisted of a
sitting-room in front, and a bedroom behind. She opened the door
of the sitting-room and quickly lit the chandelier.

This front room was pleasant enough, though perhaps a little
over-encumbered with furniture. Covering the floor was a green
carpet simulating moss; four chairs were placed round the table
which occupied the exact middle of the apartment, and in the
corner, opposite the door giving on to the landing, was a roomy,
old-fashioned chiffonnier.

On the dark-green walls hung a series of eight engravings, portraits
of early Victorian belles, clad in lace and tarletan ball dresses,
clipped from an old Book of Beauty. Mrs. Bunting was very fond of
these pictures; she thought they gave the drawing-room a note of