The Goddess Girl
We were outside the post-office and I followed him down our tidy village street where the cottages stood in neat pairs and the slim poplars and ash trees grew to a set pattern, to the end of it where the Candlestick Inn waited with open doors for us, like a model church from a child's box of German bricks.
The inn was as new and comfortable as the church was old and dilapidated, and Muggeridge had a pleasant sitting-room sufficiently remote from the well-conducted tap-room. He followed me in to shut the door with a slam.
"Why did you ask me down to your accursed wedding?" cried he, sitting down heavily in a remonstrating wicker chair.
"Upon my word!" I stared at him blankly. What could have happened to inflame him like this? He breathed fire and hatred at me; a stout and threatening volcano.
"Hang you and your wedding!" cried he.
"Muggeridge!"
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