“Am I?” said George, startled.

He hungered for further details of this great and highly disturbing matter, but Enwright, jealous by nature and excusably jealous by reason of the fact that despite his immense artistic reputation he had never succeeded in being even Vice-President of the Institute, would say no more.  Indeed he took a malicious pleasure in saying no more.

The ageing man, more hypochondriacal, thinner, and more wrinkled than ever, was full to the brim of one subject—­India.  Somebody at the India Office had flattered him by showing a knowledge of his work.  The India Office had very graciously agreed to the transfer of the barracks enterprise to Lucas & Enwright, and now Mr. Enwright was for going to India himself.  He had never been there.  Indian scenery, Indian manners, Indian architecture boiled in his brain.  The menace of German raiders would not prevent him from going to India.  He had already revisited the photographs of Indian buildings at South Kensington Museum.  Moreover, he had persuaded himself that the erection of the barracks formed an urgent and vital part of British war activity.

At the same time he was convinced that the war would soon end, and in favour of Germany.  He assumed, as being beyond doubt, that a German army would occupy Paris, and when George, with a wave of the hand, pushed the enemy back and magically rendered Paris impregnable, he nearly lost his temper.  This embittered Englishman would not hear a word against the miraculous efficiency of the Germans, whom he admired as much as he hated them.  The German military reputation could not have been safer in Potsdam than it was in Russell Square.  George, impatient of his master and inspirer, rose to depart, whereupon Mr. Enwright began to talk at large about the terrible derangement of his daily life caused by the sudden disappearance of his favourite barber, deemed now to have been a spy.  “But the only barber who ever really understood my chin,” said Mr. Enwright.  George went, shaking hands perfunctorily.  Mr. Enwright was too preoccupied to wish him luck.

The clothes were ready at the tailor’s, and they passed the tests.  George stood up disguised as a second-lieutenant in the R.F.A., booted, spurred, gloved, nicely managing a cane.  He examined himself in the great mirror and was well pleased with his military appearance.  In particular, his dark moustache fitted the role excellently.

“Now you’ll send the overcoat and all my civilian things down this afternoon, without fail,” he said.  “I’ll let you have an address for the other suit.”

And he walked manfully out of the shop.  Before he could find himself, a superb serjeant-major strode up, saluted in the highest and strictest perfection, and passed.  The encounter was unfortunate.  George, taken aback, muddled his share of the rite.  Further, the self-consciousness of the potential Vice-President of the Royal Institute of British Architects was so extreme in uniform that it could scarcely have been more extreme had he been thrust by destiny into Oxford Street naked.  He returned to the shop and said: