even the best of them. The perception
of this fact added to his puzzled woe.

"But Whinburn's design is grotesque!" he protested borrowing one of Mr.
Enwright's adjectives.

"Of course it is."

"Then why does Sir Hugh Corver go and give him the award? Surely he must
know----"

"Know!" Mr. Enwright growled, destroying Sir Hugh and his reputation and
his pretensions with one single monosyllable.

"Then why did they make him Assessor--that's what I can't understand."

"It's quite simple," rasped Mr. Enwright. "They made him assessor
because he's got so much work to do it takes him all his time to trot
about from one job to another on his blooming pony. They made him
assessor because his pony's a piebald pony. Couldn't you think of that
for yourself? Or have you been stone deaf in this office for two years?
It stands to reason that a man who's responsible for all the largest
new eyesores in London would impress any corporation. Clever chap,
Corver! Instead of wasting his time in travel and study, he made a
speciality of learning how to talk to committees. And he was always full
of ideas like the piebald pony, ever since I knew him."

"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