ter? If the creators of
Gothic cathedrals had to accept oblivion, he might. The tower should be
his signature. And no artist could imprint his influence so powerfully
and so mysteriously upon the unconscious city as he was doing. And the
planet was whirling the whole city round like an atom in the icy spaces
between the stars. And perhaps Lois was lying expectant, discontented,
upon the sofa, thinking rebelliously. He was filled with the realization
of universality.

At the hotel another telegram awaited him.

"Good old Ponting!" he exclaimed, after reading it. The message ran:

"We have won it.--PONTING"

He said:

"Why 'we,' Ponting? You didn't win it. I won it."

He said:

"Sir Hugh Corver is not going to be the head of the architectural
profession. I am." He felt the assurance of that in his bones.

CHAPTER II

THE ROLL-CALL

I

The telephone rang in the principal's room of George's office in Museum
Street. He raised his head from the drawing-board with the false gesture
of fatigued impatience which, as a business man, he had long since
acquired, and took the instrument. As a fact he was not really busy; he
was only pretending to be busy; and he rather enjoyed the summons of the
telephone, with its eternal promise of some romantic new turn of
existence. Nevertheless, though he was quite alone, he had to affect
that the telephone was his bane.

"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 g