Owen had never quite understood what it was that these young men did
want, and now his detached mind refused even more emphatically to
grapple with the problem. He distributed the documents at random with
the air of a preoccupied monarch scattering largess to the mob, and the
subsequent chaos had to be handled by a wrathful head of the department
in person.
Man's power of endurance is limited. At the end of the second week the
overwrought head appealed passionately for relief, and Owen was removed
to the Postage Department, where, when he had leisure from answering
Audrey's telephone calls, he entered the addresses of letters in a
large book and took them to the post. He was supposed also to stamp
them, but a man in love cannot think of everything, and he was apt at
times to overlook this formality.
One morning, receiving from one of the bank messengers the usual
intimation that a lady wished to speak to him on the telephone, he went
to the box and took up the receiver.
'Is that you, Owen? Owen, I went to _White Roses_ last night. Have
you been yet?'
'Not yet.'
'Then you must go tonight. Owen, I'm _certain_ you wrote it. It's
perfectly lovely. I cried my eyes out. If you don't go tonight, I'll
never speak to you again, even on the telephone. Promise.'
'Must I?'
'Yes, you must.
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