raid of winning in the
final competition. A vista of mayors, corporations, town clerks,
committees, contractors, clerks-of-works, frightened him. He was afraid
of his immaturity, of his inexperience. He could not carry out the
enterprise; he would reap only ignominy. His greatest desire had been
granted. He had expected, in the event, to be wildly happy. But he was
not happy.

"Well, I'm blowed!" he exclaimed.

Lois, who had resumed the paper, read out:

"In accordance with the conditions of the competition, each of the above
named will receive a honorarium of one hundred guineas."

She looked at him.

"You'll get that town hall to do," she said positively. "You're bound to
get it. You'll see."

Her incomprehensible but convincing faith passed mysteriously into him.
A holy dew relieved him. He began to feel happy.

Lois glanced again at the paper, which with arms outstretched she held
in front of her like a man, like the men at Pickering's. Suddenly it
fell rustling to the floor, and she burst into tears.

She murmured indistinctly: "The last thing she did was for my
pleasure--sending the car."

George jumped up, animated by an inexpressible tenderness for her. She
had weakened. He moved towards her. He did not consider what he was
doing; he had naught to say; but his instinctive arms were about to
clasp her. He was unimaginably disturbed. She straightened and stiffened
in a second.

"But of course you've not got it yet," she said harshly, with apparent
irrelevance.

Seraphine entered bouncingly with the tea. Lois regarded the tray, and
remarked the absence of the strainer.

"_Et la passoire_?" she demanded, with implacable sternness.

Seraphine gave a careless, apologetic gesture.

VII

It was late in September, when most people had returned to London after
the holidays. John Orgreave mounted to the upper floor of the house in
Russell Square where George had his office. Underneath George's name on
the door had been newly painted the word 'Inquiries,' and on another
door, opposite, the word 'Private.' John Orgreave knocked with
exaggerated noise at this second door and went into what was now
George's private room.

"I suppose one ought to knock," he said in his hearty voice.

"Hallo, Mr. Orgreave!" George exclaimed, jumping up.

"If the mountain doesn't come to Mahomet, Mahomet must come to the
mountain," said John Orgreave.

"Come in," said George.

He noticed, and ignored, the touch of