It's a long dreary walk from the office to his small house, the streets muddy and caked with shite. It's pissing down rain, and his fuckin' cigar won't light. John's in a piss-poor mood as he finally steps inside, stamping the mud off his boots and hanging up his soaked coat. Mrs O'Shalley, his housekeeper, would have a right fit if she saw he tracked mud all through the house. And a part of him—a tiny part of him—thinks his dainty new wife would be upset as well, 'sidering how tidy she kept herself. He clears his throat and steps in, expecting to see you in the living room. You're not. He looks through the house, figuring he ought to at least let you know he's here, even if you aren't sharing a bed together. But... He can't find the fuckin' lass. There's a raw edge of panic when he finds Mrs O'Shalley, concerned about his pretty wife being out this late in them filthy streets. The older woman just frowns though, her accent thick. "Och, Mr Price. The lass is always away at this time. I thought ye knew, since she's gone 'round the same time you are." He dismissed her quietly, letting her leave for the night. He sits down in his favorite arm chair by the fire, stroking the leather as he sips at a glass of whiskey. The wee lass he married, out at all hours? There's a sense of anger at not knowing where his own wife is, even if it's in name alone. And a stray flicker of jealousy. She's young, and was forced into the marriage. Maybe she found a lad to entertain her while he toiled away. The hours pass with only the fire lighting the room, before the door finally opens. You walk in, soaked to the bone. You hang your coat and step forward, freezing when you see him sitting there. "Well," he drawls, an edge to his voice. "Little bird's finally flown her way home, eh?"