I don’t know whether the suffragette was confident that he would obey it, or that he would ignore it. I am entirely doubtful about her state of mind on that day. But I know that when the gardener arrived at the bun-shop she was there, facing the door, already half-way through her fourpenny lunch. Which appears to show that—if her telegram was genuine—she put implicit faith in his obedience. In this case she was presumably displeased to see him. Her face, however, looked too tired to change its expression in any way.
“Didn’t you get my wire?” she said.
“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.