Short Fiction by P. G. Wodehouse (me reader .txt) 📕

addresses of letters in a large book and took them to the post. He was supposed also to stamp them, but a man in love cannot think of everything, and he was apt at times to overlook this formality.

One morning, receiving from one of the bank messengers the usual intimation that a lady wished to speak to him on the telephone, he went to the box and took up the receiver.

“Is that you, Owen? Owen, I went to White Roses last night. Have you been yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Then you must go tonight. Owen, I’m certain you wrote it. It’s perfectly lovely. I cried my eyes out. If you don’t go tonight, I’ll never speak to you again, even on the telephone. Promise.”

“Must I?”

“Yes, you must. 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. Goodbye.”

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.

Owen regarded him without resentment. Since returning to London he had taken the trouble of looking up his name in Who’s Who and had found that he was not so undistinguished as he had supposed. He was, it appeared, a Regius Professor and the author of some half-dozen works on sociology⁠—a record, Owen felt, that almost justified loaf-slinging and ear-hole clipping in moments of irritation.

The manager started to speak, but the man of letters anticipated him.

“Is this the fool?” he roared. “Young man, I have no wish to be hard on a congenital idiot who is not responsible for his actions, but I must insist on an explanation. I understand that you are in charge of the correspondence in this office. Well, during the last week you have three times sent unstamped letters to my fiancée, Miss Vera Delane, Woodlands, Southbourne, Hants. What’s the matter with you? Do you think she likes paying twopence a time, or what is it?”

Owen’s mind leaped back at the words. They recalled something to him. Then he remembered.

He was conscious of a not unpleasant thrill. He had not known that he was superstitious, but for some reason he had not been able to get those absurd words of Mr. Dorman’s mother out of his mind. And here was another prediction of hers, equally improbable, fulfilled to the letter.

“Great Scott!” he cried. “Are you going to be married?”

Mr. Prosser and the manager started simultaneously.

“Mrs. Dorman said you would be,” said Owen. “Don’t you remember?”

Mr. Prosser looked keenly at him.

“Why, I’ve seen you before,” he said. “You’re the young turnip-headed scallywag at the farm.”

“That’s right,” said Owen.

“I’ve been wanting to meet you again. I thought the whole thing over, and it struck me,” said Mr. Prosser, handsomely, “that I may have seemed a little abrupt at our last meeting.”

“No, no.”

“The fact is, I was in the middle of an infernally difficult passage of my book that morning, and when you began⁠—”

“It was my fault entirely. I quite understand.”

Mr. Prosser produced a card-case.

“We must see more of each other,” he said. “Come and have a bit of dinner some night. Come tonight.”

“I’m very sorry. I have to go to the theatre tonight.”

“Then come and have a bit of supper afterwards. Excellent. Meet me at the Savoy at eleven-fifteen. I’m glad I didn’t hit you with that loaf. Abruptness has been my failing through life. My father was just the same. Eleven-fifteen at the Savoy, then.”

The manager, who had been listening with some restlessness to the conversation, now intervened. He was a man with a sense of fitness of things, and he objected to having his private room made the scene of what appeared to be a reunion of old college chums. 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 deathtrap. 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