He hinted as much.
'Ha! Prrumph!' he observed, disapprovingly. 'Er--Mr Bentley, that is
all. You may return to your work--ah'mmm! Kindly be more careful
another time in stamping the letters.'
'Yes, by Jove,' said Mr Prosser, suddenly reminded of his wrongs,
'that's right. Exercise a little ordinary care, you ivory-skulled
young son of a gun. Do you think Miss Delane is _made_ of
twopences? Keep an eye on him,' he urged the manager. 'These young
fellows nowadays want someone standing over them with a knout all the
time. Be more careful another time, young man. Eleven-fifteen,
remember. Make a note of it, or you'll go forgetting _that_.'
* * * * *
The seat Audrey had bought for him at the Piccadilly Theatre proved to
be in the centre of the sixth row of stalls--practically a death-trap.
Whatever his sufferings might be, escape was impossible. He was
securely wedged in.
The cheaper parts of the house were sparsely occupied, but the stalls
were full. Owen, disapproving of the whole business, refused to buy a
programme, and settled himself in his seat prepared for the worst. He
had a vivid recollection of _White Roses_, the novel, and he did
not anticipate any keen enjoyment from it in its dramatized form. He
had long ceased to be a, member of that large public for which Miss
Edith Butler catered.
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