"You couldn't have any other façade," Mr. Enwright turned on him,
"unless you're absolutely going to ignore the market on the other side
of the Square. Whinburn's façade is an outrage--an outrage. Give me a
cigarette. I must run out and get shaved."

While Mr. Enwright was lighting the cigarette, George reflected in
desolation upon the slow evolving of the firm's design for the Law
Courts. Again and again in the course of the work had he been struck
into a worshipping enthusiasm by the brilliance of Mr. Enwright's
invention and the happy beauty of his ideas. For George there was only
one architect in the world; he was convinced that nobody could possibly
rival Mr. Enwright, and that no Law Courts ever had been conceived equal
to those Law Courts. And he himself had contributed something to the
creation. He had dreamed of the building erected and of being able to
stand in front of some detail of it and say to himself: "That was my
notion, that was." And now the building was destroyed before its birth.
It would never come into existence. It was wasted. And the prospect for
the firm of several years' remunerative and satisfying labour had
vanished. But the ridiculous, canny Whinburn would be profitably
occupied, and his grotesque building would actually arise, and people
would praise it, and it would survive for centuries--at any rate for a
century.

Mr. Enwright did not move.

"It's no use regretting the façade, Orgreave," he said suddenly.
"There's such a thing as self-respect."

"I don't see that self-respect's got much to do with it," Orgreave
replied lightly.