“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.