And then suddenly he found himself
looking across the table at his Host, and feeling a sense of absolute
conviction that this was the one man of all others whom he would have
selected as a confidant. How kindly, though somewhat misty, his face
was! How soothing, if a little indistinct, his voice!
'Prosser,' he said, 'you are a man of the world, and I should like your
advice. What would you do in a case like this? I go to a theatre to see
a play, and what do I find?'
He paused, and eyed his host impressively.
'What's that tune they're playing?' said Mr Prosser. 'You hear it
everywhere. One of these Viennese things, I suppose.'
Owen was annoyed. He began to doubt whether, after all, Mr Prosser's
virtues as a confidant were not more apparent than real.
'I find, by Jove,' he continued, 'that I wrote the thing myself.'
'It's not a patch on _The Merry Widow_,' said Mr Prosser.
Owen thumped the table.
'I tell you I find I wrote the thing myself.'
'What thing?'
'This play I'm telling you about. This _White Roses_ thing.'
He found that he had at last got his host's ear. Mr Prosser seemed
genuinely interested.
'What do you mean?'
Owen plunged on with his story. He started from its dim beginning, from
the days when he had bought the novel on his journey from Bath to
Cheltenham.
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