And then, tired as he was, the conscience of the creative artist and of the competitor began to annoy him and spur him.  The perspective drawing did not quite satisfy—­and there was still time.  The point of view for the perspective drawing was too high up, and the result was a certain marring of the nobility of the lines, and certainly a diminishment of the effect of the tower.  He had previously started another perspective drawing with a lower view-point, but he had mistakenly cast it aside.  He ought to finish the first one and substitute it for the second one.  ’The perspective drawing had a moral importance; it had a special influence on the assessors and committees.  Horrid, tiresome labour!  Three, four, five, or six hours of highly concentrated tedium.  Was it worth while?  It was not.  Mr. Enwright liked the finished drawing.  He, George, could not face a further strain.  And yet he was not content....  Pooh!  Who said he could not face a further strain?  Of course he could face it.  If he did not face it, his conscience would accuse him of cowardice during the rest of his life, and he would never be able to say honestly:  “I did my level best with the thing.”  He snapped his fingers lightly, and in one second had decided to finish the original perspective drawing, and in his very finest style.  He would complete it some time during the night.  In the morning it could be mounted.  The drawings were to go to the north in a case on the morrow by passenger train, and to be met at their destination by a commissionaire common to several competitors; this commissionaire would deliver them to the Town Clerk in accordance with the conditions.  In a few minutes George was at work, excited, having forgotten all fatigue.  He was saying to himself that he would run out towards eight o’clock for a chop or a steak.  As he worked he perceived that he had been quite right to throw over the second drawing; he wondered that he could have felt any hesitation; the new drawing would be immeasurably superior.

Mr. Haim ‘stepped up,’ discreetly knocking, entering with dignity.  The relations between these two had little by little resumed their old, purely formal quality.  Both seemed to have forgotten that passionate anger had ever separated them and joined them together.  George was young, and capable of oblivion.  Mr. Haim had beaten him in the struggle and could afford to forget.  They conversed politely, as though the old man had no daughter and the youth had never had a lover.  Mr. Haim had even assisted with the lettering of the sheets—­not because George needed his help, but because Mr. Haim’s calligraphic pride needed to help.  To refuse the stately offer would have been to insult.  Mr. Haim had aged, but not greatly.

“You’re wanted on the telephone, Mr. Cannon.”

“Oh!  Dash it!...  Thanks!”

After all George was no longer on the staff of Lucas & Enwright, and Mr. Haim was conferring a favour.

Down below in the big office everybody had gone except the factotum.