latter part of the interminable and sagacious harangue.  George thought:  “Pardon me!  The city has not erected this civic monument.  I have erected it.”  And he thought upon all the labour he had put into it, and all the beauty and magnificence which he had evolved.  Alderman Soulter should have replied on behalf of the town hall committee, and the Alderman who took his place apologized for his inability to fill the role, and said little.

Then the Toast-master bawled incomprehensibly for the twentieth time, and a councillor arose and in timid tones said: 

“I rise to propose the toast of the architect and contractor.”

George was so astounded that he caught scarcely anything of the speech.  It was incredible to him that he, the creative artist, who was solely responsible for the architecture and decoration of the monument, in whose unique mind it had existed long before the second brick had been placed upon the first, should be bracketed in a toast with the tradesman and middleman who had merely supervised the execution of his scheme according to rules of thumb.  He flushed.  He wanted to walk out.  But nobody else appeared to be disturbed.  George, who had never before attended an inauguration, was simply not aware that the toast ’architect and contractor’ was the classic British toast, invariably drunk on such occasions, and never criticised.  He thought:  “What a country!” and remembered hundreds of Mr. Enwright’s remarks....  Phrases of the orator wandered into his ear.  “The competition system....  We went to Sir Hugh Corver, the head of the architectural profession [loud applause] and Sir Hugh Corver assured us that the design of Mr. George Cannon was the best. [Hear, hear!  Hear, hear!]...  Mr. Phirrip, head of the famous firm of Phirrips Limited [loud applause] ... fortunate, after our misfortune with the original contractor to obtain such a leading light....  Cannot sufficiently thank these two—­er officials for the intellect, energy, and patience they have put into their work.”

As the speech was concluding, a tactless man sitting next to George, with whom he had progressed very slowly in acquaintance during the lunch, leaned towards him and murmured in a confidential tone: 

“Did I tell you both naval yards up here have just had orders to work day and night?  Yes.  Fact.”

George’s mind ran back to Mr. Prince, and Mr. Prince’s prophecy of war.  Was there something in it after all?  The thought passed in an instant, but the last vestiges of his equanimity had gone.  Hearing his name he jumped up in a mist inhabited by inimical phantoms, and, amid feeble acclamations here and there, said he knew not what in a voice now absurdly loud and now absurdly soft, and sat down, amid more feeble acclamations, feeling an angry fool.  It was the most hideous experience.  He lit a cigarette, his first that day.

When Mr. Phirrips rose, the warm clapping was expectant of good things.