Why, suppose it _is_ yours! It may mean a fortune.
The stalls were simply packed. I'm going to ring up the theatre now and
engage a seat for you, and pay for it myself.'
'No--I say--' protested Owen.
'Yes, I shall. I can't trust you to go if I don't. And I'll ring up
early tomorrow to hear all about it. Good-bye.'
Owen left the box somewhat depressed. Life was quite gloomy enough as
it was, without going out of one's way to cry one's eyes out over
sentimental plays.
His depression was increased by the receipt, on his return to his
department, of a message from the manager, stating that he would like
to see Mr Bentley in his private room for a moment. Owen never enjoyed
these little chats with Authority. Out of office hours, in the circle
of his friends, he had no doubt the manager was a delightful and
entertaining companion; but in his private room his conversation was
less enjoyable.
The manager was seated at his table, thoughtfully regarding the
ceiling. His resemblance to a stuffed trout, always striking, was
subtly accentuated, and Owen, an expert in these matters, felt that his
fears had been well founded--there was trouble in the air. Somebody had
been complaining of him, and he was now about, as the phrase went, to
be 'run-in'.
A large man, seated with his back to the door, turned as he entered,
and Owen recognized the well-remembered features of Mr Prosser, the
literary loaf-slinger.
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