"I went out to get a paper," he said sullenly.
After all, he was master.

He had as much right to spend the money as she had; for the matter of that the money on which they were now both living had been lent, nay, pressed on him--not on Ellen--by that decent young chap, Joe Chandler.

And he, Bunting, had done all he could; he had pawned everything he could pawn, while Ellen, so he resentfully noticed, still wore her wedding ring.
He stepped past her heavily, and though she said nothing, he knew she grudged him his coming joy.

Then, full of rage with her and contempt for himself, and giving himself the luxury of a mild, a very mild, oath--Ellen had very early made it clear she would have no swearing in her presence--he lit the hall gas full-flare.
"How can we hope to get lodgers if they can't even see the card ?" he shouted angrily.
And there was truth in what he said, for now that he had lit the gas, the oblong card, though not the word "Apartments" printed on it, could be plainly seen out-lined against the old-fashioned fanlight above the front door.
Bunting went into the sitting-room, silently followed by his wife, and then, sitting down in his nice arm-chair, he poked the little banked-up fire.

It was the first time Bunting had poked the fire for many a long day, and this exertion of marital authority made him feel better.