Now, then?'
'I can tell it you. It was Wilbraham's. I was stopping there.'
'You pass,' said Mr Prosser. 'It was Wilbraham's.'
Owen's heart gave a jump. For a moment he walked on air.
'Then do you mean to say that it's all right--that you believe--'
'I do,' said Mr Prosser. 'By the way,' he said, 'the notice of _White
Roses_ went up last night.'
Owen's heart turned to lead.
'But--but--' he stammered. 'But tonight the house was packed.'
'It was. Packed with paper. All the merry dead-heads in London were
there. It has been the worst failure this season. And, by George,' he
cried, with sudden vehemence, 'serve 'em right. If I told them once it
would fail in England, I told them a hundred times. The London public
won't stand that sort of blithering twaddle.'
Owen stopped and looked round. A cab was standing across the road. He
signalled to it. He felt incapable of walking home. No physical blow
could have unmanned him more completely than this hideous
disappointment just when, by a miracle, everything seemed to be running
his way.
'Sooner ride than walk,' said Mr Prosser, pushing his head through the
open window. 'Laziness--slackness--that's the curse of the modern young
man. Where shall I tell him to drive to?'
Owen mentioned his address. It struck him that he had not thanked his
host for his hospitality.
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