But a dramatization of a novel is another matter. All
dramatizations of any given novel must necessarily be very much alike.
He started to walk along Piccadilly, and had reached Hyde Park Corner
before he recollected that he had an engagement to take supper with Mr
Prosser at the Savoy Hotel. He hailed a cab.
'You're late,' boomed the author of sociological treatises, as he
appeared. 'You're infernally late. I suppose, in your woollen-headed
way, you forgot all about it. Come along. We'll just have time for an
olive and a glass of something before they turn the lights out.'
Owen was still thinking deeply as he began his supper. Surely there was
some way by which he could prove his claims. What had he done with the
original manuscript? He remembered now. He had burnt it. It had seemed
mere useless litter then. Probably, he felt bitterly, the woman Butler
had counted on this.
Mr Prosser concluded an animated conversation with a waiter on the
subject of the wines of France, leaned forward, and, having helped
himself briskly to anchovies, began to talk. He talked loudly and
rapidly. Owen, his thoughts far away, hardly listened.
Presently the waiter returned with the selected brand. He filled Owen's
glass, and Owen drank, and felt better. Finding his glass magically
full once more, he emptied it again.
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