When with Bunting she was pursued by a sick feeling of guilt, of shame.

She was the man's wedded wife--in his stolid way he was very kind to her, and yet she was keeping from him something he certainly had a right to know.
Not for worlds, however, would she have told Bunting of her dreadful suspicion--nay, of her almost certainty.
At last she went across to the door and unlocked it.

Then she went upstairs and turned out her bedroom.

That made her feel a little better.
She longed for Bunting to return, and yet in a way she was relieved by his absence.

She would have liked to feel him near by, and yet she welcomed anything that took her husband out of the house.
And as Mrs.Bunting swept and dusted, trying to put her whole mind into what she was doing, she was asking herself all the time what was going on upstairs.
What a good rest the lodger was having! But there, that was only natural.