“Can Sir Isaac Davids speak to you, sir, from the Artists Club?”

“Put him on.”

Immediately came the thick, rich voice of Sir Isaac, with its implications of cynicism and triumphant disdain—­attenuated and weakened in the telephone, suggesting an object seen through the wrong end of a telescope.

“Is that you, Cannon?”

“It is,” said George shortly.  Without yet knowing it, he had already begun to hate Sir Isaac.  His criticism of Sir Isaac was that the man was too damnably sure of himself.  And not all Sir Isaac’s obvious power, and influence, and vast potential usefulness to a young architect, could prevent George from occasionally, as he put it, ’standing up to the fellow.’

“Well, you’d better come along here, if you can.  I want to see you,” said the unruffled voice of Sir Isaac.

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“All right.”

As George replaced the instrument, he murmured: 

“I know what that means.  It’s all off.”  And after a moment:  “I knew jolly well it would be.”

He glanced round the very orderly room, to which, by judicious furnishing, he had given a severe distinction at no great cost.  On the walls were a few interesting things, including a couple of his own perspectives.  A neo-impressionist oil-sketch over the mantelpiece, with blue trees and red fields and a girl whose face was a featureless blob, imperiously monopolized the attention of the beholder, warning him, whoever he might be, that the inescapable revolutionary future was now at hand.  The room and everything in it, that entity upon which George had spent so much trouble, and of which he had been so proud, seemed futile, pointless, utterly unprofitable.

The winning of the Indian limited competition, coupled with the firm rumour that Sir Isaac Davids had singled him out for patronage, had brilliantly renewed George’s reputation and the jealousy which proved its reality.  The professional journals had been full of him, and everybody assured everybody that his ultimate, complete permanent success had never been in doubt.  The fact that the barracks would be the largest barracks in India indicated to the superstitious, and to George himself, that destiny intended him always to break records.  After the largest town hall, the largest barracks; and it was said that Sir Isaac’s factory was to be the largest factory!  But the outbreak of war had overthrown all reputations, save the military and the political.  Every value was changed according to a fresh standard, as in a shipwreck.  For a week George had felt an actual physical weight in the stomach.  This weight was his own selfish woe, but it was also the woe of the entire friendly world.  Every architect knew and said that the profession of architecture would be ruined for years.  Then the India Office woke George up.  The attitude of the India Office was overbearing.  It implied that it had been marvellously original and virtuous