which he, as a worshipper of Mr. Enwright, had been accustomed to rebut.  Further, Lucas himself had not erred by the extravagance of his enthusiasm for George’s earth-shaking success.  For example, Lucas had said:  “Don’t go and get above yourself, old chap.  They may decide not to build it after all.  You never know with these corporations.”  A remark extremely undeserved, for George considered that the modesty and simplicity of his own demeanour under the stress of an inordinate triumph were rather notable.  Still, he had his dignity to maintain against the satiric, and his position was such that he could afford to maintain it.

Anyhow, he preferred the sardonic bearing of his professional intimates to the sycophancy of certain acquaintances and of eager snobs unknown to him.  Among sundry telegrams received was one composed regardless of cost and signed ‘Turnbull.’  He could not discover who Turnbull might be until John Orgreave had reminded him of the wigged, brown, conversational gentleman whom he had met, on one occasion only, at Adela’s.  In addition to telegrams he had had letters, some of which contained requests for money (demanded even as a right by the unlucky from the lucky), and an assortment of charity circulars, money-lenders’ circulars, and bucket-shop lures.  His mother’s great sprawling letter had pleased him better than any save one.  The exception was his stepfather’s.  Edwin Clayhanger, duly passing on to the next generation the benevolent Midland gibe which he had inherited, wrote: 

“DEAR GEORGE,—­It’s better than a bat in the eye with a burnt stick.—­Yours affectionately, NUNKS”

As a boy George had at one period called his stepfather ‘Nunks,’ but he had not used the appellation for years.  He was touched now.

The newspapers had been hot after him, and he knew not how to defend himself.  His photograph was implored.  He was waylaid by journalists shabby and by journalists spruce, and the resulting interviews made him squirm.  He became a man of mark at Pickering’s.  Photographers entreated him to sit free of charge.  What irritated him in the whole vast affair was the continual insistence upon his lack of years.  Nobody seemed to be interested in his design for the town hall; everybody had the air of regarding him as a youthful prodigy, a performing animal.  Personally he did not consider that he was so very young. (Nevertheless he did consider that he was a youthful prodigy.  He could recall no architect in history who had done what he had done at his age.) The town clerk who travelled from the North to see him treated his age in a different manner, the patronizing.  He did not care for the town clerk.  However, the town clerk was atoned for by the chairman of the new town hall sub-committee, a true human being named Soulter, with a terrific accent and a taste for architecture, pictures, and music.  Mr. Soulter, though at least forty-five, treated George, without any appearance of effort, as a coeval.  George immediately liked him, and the mere existence of Mr. Soulter had the effect of dissipating nearly all George’s horrible qualms and apprehensions about his own competence to face the overwhelming job of erection.  Mr. Soulter was most soothing in the matter of specifications and contractors.