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.