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—'