“What is a wire to me?” asked the gardener, sitting down. There was a long pause, during which he ordered a Welsh Rarebit from a waitress who, six months ago, would have furnished him with an ideal of womanhood. “Why did you wire?” he asked presently. “I have to go on a journey,” said the suffragette, waving at the mustard-coloured portmanteau, which was seated on a chair beside her. “In that case, so have I,” said the gardener. “We’ll get married first, and then go on the journey together.” No reply. Their talk was like broken fragments thrown upon a sea of ice. It hurried, faltered, stopped, and then froze into a background of silence. The gardener noticed that the suffragette was trembling violently, and with a great effort he made no comment on this discovery. Finally she rose, leaving quite twopence-halfpenny worth of her meal hiding beneath her knife and fork. “You’ll have to show me where this registry office is,” said the gardener, “and also what to do. I don’t know how one gets married.” “Neither do I,” said the suffragette. “I’ll carry your bag.” “I like carrying things. I hate being helped. You must always remember that I am a militant suffragette.” “I am never allowed to forget it,” sighed the gardener, his ardour rather damped. “Are we getting near the place?” “Very near.” They stopped at the steps of a church. “We might have thought it our duty to be married in a church,” she said. “What a merciful escape!” He was silent. “I hate God,” she added. “Don’t,” said the gardener. “You’re too excited. Don’t tremble like that. Don’t hate God. After all, He made the world—a green sane world—with you and me in it....” “He made it with you in it. But I got in by mistake.” “What a happy mistake!” said the gardener. “Come into the church, my dear, and rest for a moment. Don’t try to look too deep into the reasons of things, you’ll only get giddy.” He took her hand, and they went up the steps together. “It’s a fine church,” he said. “That screen’s a fine bit of carving.” He felt as if he had taken charge of his suffragette’s nerves, and he busied his brain in the composition of cool and commonplace remarks. “That chancel screen is dirty. It’s the gift of foul hands, bought with foul money. Do you think me mad?” “You are, rather, you know. Pull yourself together. Surely you’re not frightened of getting married to me?” The suffragette laughed. “You wonderfully faithful friend,” she said.