("Of course you don't," George thought. "You're a decent sort, but you
don't see, and you never will see. Even Lucas doesn't see. I alone see."
And he felt savage and defiant.)

"Better shove my self-respect away into this cupboard, I suppose!" said
Mr. Enwright, with the most acrid cynicism, and he pulled open one door
of a long, low cupboard whose top formed a table for portfolios, dusty
illustrated books, and other accumulations.

The gesture was dramatic, and none knew it better than Mr. Enwright. The
cupboard was the cupboard which contained the skeleton. It was full of
designs rejected in public competitions. There they lay, piles and piles
of them, the earliest dating from the late seventies. The cupboard was
crammed with the futility of Enwright's genius. It held monuments enough
to make illustrious a score of cities. Lucas & Enwright was a successful
firm. But, confining itself chiefly to large public works, it could not
escape from the competition system; and it had lost in far more
competitions than it had won. It was always, and always would be, at the
mercy of an Assessor. The chances had always been, and always would be,
against the acceptance of its designs, because they had the fatal
quality of originality combined with modest adherence to the classical
tradition. When they conquered, it was by sheer force. George glanced at
the skeleton, and he was afraid. Something was very wrong with
architecture. He agreed with Mr. Enwright's tiresomely reiterated axiom
that it was the Cinderella of professions and the chosen field of
ghastly injustice. He had embraced architecture; he had determined to
follow exactly in the footsteps of Mr. Enwright; he had sworn to
succeed. But could he succeed? Suppose he failed! Yes, his faith
faltered. He was intensely, miserably afraid. He was the most serious