at the revelation.  He was afraid, and yet courageous, challenging, combative.  She had grandeur.  It might be moral, or not; but it was grandeur.  And—­(that touch about the complexion!)—­she could remember her freckles!  She might, in her hard egotism, in the rushing impulses of her appetites—­she might be an enemy, an enemy to close with whom would be terrible rapture, and the war of the sexes was a sublime war, infinitely superior in emotions to tame peace. (And had she not been certified an angel?  Had he not himself seen the angel in her?) She dwarfed her father and mother.  The conception, especially, of Mr. Ingram at lunch, deliciously playful and dominating, and now with the adroit wit crushed out of him and only a naive sentimentality left, was comic—­as she had ruthlessly characterized it.  She alone towered formidably over the devastated ruins of Irene’s earthly splendour.

He said nothing.

She rang the bell by the mantelpiece.  He heard it ring.  No answer.  She rang again.

“Arrivez donc, jeune fille!” she exclaimed impatiently.

The servant came.

“Apportez du the, Seraphine.”

“Oui, mademoiselle.”

Then Lois lounged towards the table and tore sharply the wrapper of the newspaper.  George was still standing.

“He’s probably got something in about her this week—­about her soiree last Tuesday.  We weren’t invited.  Of course he went.”

George saw the name the Sunday Journal.  The paper had come by the afternoon mail, and had been delivered, according to weekly custom, by messenger from Mr. Ingram’s office.  Lois’s tone and attitude tore fatally the whole factitious ‘Parisian’ tradition, as her hand had torn the wrapper.

“See here,” she said quietly, after a few seconds, and gave the newspaper with her thumb indicating a paragraph.

He could hardly read the heading, because it unnerved him; nor the opening lines.  But he read this:  “The following six architects have been selected by the Assessors and will be immediately requested by the Corporation to submit final designs for the town hall:  Mr. Whinburn, Mr....  Mr....  Mr. George E. Cannon ...”

“What did I always tell you?” she said.

And then she said: 

“Your telegram must have been addressed wrong, or something.”

He sat down.  Once again he was afraid.  He was afraid of winning in the final competition.  A vista of mayors, corporations, town clerks, committees, contractors, clerks-of-works, frightened him.  He was afraid of his immaturity, of his inexperience.  He could not carry out the enterprise; he would reap only ignominy.  His greatest desire had been granted.  He had expected, in the event, to be wildly happy.  But he was not happy.

“Well, I’m blowed!” he exclaimed.

Lois, who had resumed the paper, read out: 

“In accordance with the conditions of the competition, each of the above named will receive a honorarium of one hundred guineas.”