“Well, I like this, I like this!” he said in a quiet, sardonic tone.  “Sitting at my desk and blazing my electricity away!  I happened to get up, and I looked out of the window and noticed the glare below.  So I came to see what was afoot.  Do you know you frightened me?—­and I don’t like being frightened.”

“I hadn’t the slightest notion you ever slept here,” George feebly stammered.

“Didn’t you know I’d decided to keep a couple of rooms here for myself?”

“I had heard something about it, but I didn’t know you’d really moved in.  I—­I’ve been away so much.”

“I moved in, as you call it, to-day—­yesterday, and a nice night you’re giving me!  And even supposing I hadn’t moved in, what’s that got to do with your being here?  Give me a cigarette.”

With hurrying deference George gave the cigarette, and struck a match for it, and as he held the match he had a near view of Mr. Enwright’s prosaic unshaved chin.  The house was no longer the haunt of lurking phantoms; it was a common worldly house without any mystery or any menace.  George’s skin was no longer the field of abnormal phenomena.  Dawn was conquering Russell Square.  On the other hand, George was no longer a giant of energy, initiating out of ample experience a tremendous and superb enterprise.  He was suddenly diminished to a boy, or at best a lad.  He really felt that it was ridiculous for him to be sketching and scratching away there in the middle of the night in his dress-clothes.  Even his overcoat, hat, and fancy muffler cast on a chair seemed ridiculous.  He was a child, pretending to be an adult.  He glanced like a child at Mr. Enwright; he roughened his hair with his hand like a child.  He had the most wistful and apologetic air.

He said: 

“I just came along here for a bit instead of going to bed.  I didn’t know it was so late.”

“Do you often just come along here?”

“No.  I never did it before.  But to-night——­”

“What is it you’re at?”

“I’d been thinking a bit about that new town hall.”

“What new town hall?”

“You know——­”

Mr. Enwright did know.

“But haven’t I even yet succeeded in making it clear that this firm is not going in for that particular competition?”

Mr. Enwright’s sarcastic and discontented tone challenged George, who stiffened.

“Oh!  I know the firm isn’t going in for it.  But what’s the matter with me going in for it?”

He forced himself to meet Mr. Enwright’s eyes, but he could not help blushing.  He was scarcely out of his articles; he had failed in the Final; and he aspired to create the largest English public building of the last half-century.

“Are you quite mad?” Mr. Enwright turned away from the desk to the farther window, hiding his countenance.

“Yes,” said George firmly.  “Quite!”

Mr. Enwright, after a pause, came back to the desk.