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It stands to reason that a man who's responsible for all the largest new eyesores in London would impress any corporation. Clever chap, Corver! Instead of wasting his time in travel and study, he made a speciality of learning how to talk to committees. And he was always full of ideas like the piebald pony, ever since I knew him." "It's that façade that did for us," broke in another voice.
"That chap!... Where are we?" "Nowhere." "Not placed?" "Not in it. Skelting's second. And Grant third. I shouldn't have minded so much if Grant had got it. There was something to be said for his scheme. I knew we shouldn't get it. I knew that perfectly well not with Corver assessing."
He was far off the sublime heights of Sir Hugh Corver, though he met Sir Hugh apparently as an equal on the Council of the Royal Society of British Architects. Work had not surged in upon him. He had not been able to pick and choose among commissions. He had never won another competition.
Still more to the point, the Corporation had appointed a second assessor to act with Sir Hugh Corver. In short, it had shown that it was under no mandarin's thumb, and that what it really and seriously wanted was the best design that the profession could produce. Mr. Enwright, indeed, had nearly admitted regret at having kept out of the immense affair.
"I for one am not going in for any more competitions with Corver as assessor," said Mr. Enwright. "I won't do it." Faces fell. Mr. Enwright had previously published this resolve, but it had not been taken quite seriously. It was entirely serious. Neuralgia and a baronetcy had given it the consistency of steel. "It isn't as if we hadn't got plenty of work in the office," said Mr. Enwright.
If the multiplicity of his lucrative jobs had been such as to compel him to run round from one to another on a piebald pony in the style of Sir Hugh Corver, his view of the profession would not have altered.
"I suppose you know Sir Hugh Corver, Bart., is to be the assessor," said Mr. Enwright in a devastating tone. Sir Hugh Corver, formerly a mere knight, had received a baronetcy, to Mr. Enwright's deep disgust. Mr.
At the hotel another telegram awaited him. "Good old Ponting!" he exclaimed, after reading it. The message ran: "We have won it. 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.
This was true. The firm was exceedingly prosperous. Nobody else spoke. "What can you expect from a fellow like Corver?" Mr. Enwright cried, with a special glance at George. "He's the upas-tree of decent architecture." George's mood changed immediately. Profound discouragement succeeded to his creative stimulation. Mr. Enwright had reason on his side.
"Then why does Sir Hugh Corver go and give him the award? Surely he must know " "Know!" Mr. Enwright growled, destroying Sir Hugh and his reputation and his pretensions with one single monosyllable. "Then why did they make him Assessor that's what I can't understand." "It's quite simple," rasped Mr. Enwright.
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