“It’s that facade that did for us,” broke in another voice.  John Orgreave stood behind Mr. Enwright.  He spoke easily; he was not ruffled by the immense disappointment, though the mournful greatness of the topic had drawn him irresistibly into the discussion.  John Orgreave had grown rather fat and coarse.  At one period, in the Five Towns, he had been George’s hero.  He was so no longer.  George was still fond of him, but he had torn him down from the pedestal and established Mr. Enwright in his place.  George in his heart now somewhat patronized the placid Orgreave, regarding him as an excellent person who comprehended naught that was worth comprehending, and as a husband who was the dupe of his wife.

“You couldn’t have any other facade,” Mr. Enwright turned on him, “unless you’re absolutely going to ignore the market on the other side of the Square.  Whinburn’s facade is an outrage—­an outrage.  Give me a cigarette.  I must run out and get shaved.”

While Mr. Enwright was lighting the cigarette, George reflected in desolation upon the slow evolving of the firm’s design for the Law Courts.  Again and again in the course of the work had he been struck into a worshipping enthusiasm by the brilliance of Mr. Enwright’s invention and the happy beauty of his ideas.  For George there was only one architect in the world; he was convinced that nobody could possibly rival Mr. Enwright, and that no Law Courts ever had been conceived equal to those Law Courts.  And he himself had contributed something to the creation.  He had dreamed of the building erected and of being able to stand in front of some detail of it and say to himself:  “That was my notion, that was.”  And now the building was destroyed before its birth.  It would never come into existence.  It was wasted.  And the prospect for the firm of several years’ remunerative and satisfying labour had vanished.  But the ridiculous, canny Whinburn would be profitably occupied, and his grotesque building would actually arise, and people would praise it, and it would survive for centuries—­at any rate for a century.

Mr. Enwright did not move.

“It’s no use regretting the facade, Orgreave,” he said suddenly.  “There’s such a thing as self-respect.”

“I don’t see that self-respect’s got much to do with it,” Orgreave replied lightly.

("Of course you don’t,” George thought.  “You’re a decent sort, but you don’t see, and you never will see.  Even Lucas doesn’t see.  I alone see.”  And he felt savage and defiant.)

“Better shove my self-respect away into this cupboard, I suppose!” said Mr. Enwright, with the most acrid cynicism, and he pulled open one door of a long, low cupboard whose top formed a table for portfolios, dusty illustrated books, and other accumulations.