George was shocked, and almost frightened. In his opinion the true intelligence of the city was embodied in Mr. Soulter. Mr. Soulter had been a father to him, had understood his aims and fought for them again and again. Without Mr. Soulter he felt defenceless before the ordeal of the Opening, and he wished that he might fly back to London instantly. Nevertheless the contact of the cool, clean sheets was exquisite, and he went to sleep at once, just as he was realizing the extremity of his fatigue. He did not have his sleep out. Despite the menace of death, a courageous creature heavily knocked at his door at ten o'clock and entered. It was a page-boy with a telegram. George opened the envelope resentfully. "No answer." The telegram read: "Am told we have got it.--PONTING" Ponting was George's assistant. The news referred to a competition for an enormous barracks in India--one of the two competitions pending. It had come sooner than expected. Was it true? George was aware that Ponting had useful acquaintanceship with a clerk in the India Office. He thought, trying not to believe: "Of course Ponting will swallow anything." But he made no attempt to sleep again. He was too elated. V Through a strange circumstance George arrived late for the Opening lunch in the lower hall, but he was late in grave company. He had been wandering aimlessly and quite alone about the great interiors of the town hall when he caught sight of Mr. Phirrips, the contractor, with the bishop and the most famous sporting peer of the north, a man who for some mystical reason was idolized by the masses of the city. Unfortunately Mr. Phirrips also caught sight of George. "Bishop, here is Mr. Cannon, our architect. He will be able to explain perhaps better--" And in an instant Mr. Phirrips had executed one of those feats of prestidigitation for which he was renowned in contracting circles, left George with the bishop, and gone off with his highly prized quarry, the sporting peer. George, despite much worldliness, had never before had speech with a bishop. However, the bishop played his part in a soothingly conventional way, manipulated his apron and his calves with senile dignity, stood still and gazed ardently at ceilings and vistas, and said at intervals, explosively and hoarsely: "Ha! Very, interesting! Very interesting! Very fine! Very fine! Noble!" He also put intelligent questions to the youthful architect, such as: "How many bricks have been used in this building?" He was very leisurely, as though the whole of eternity was his. "I'm afraid we may be late for the luncheon," George ventured. The bishop looked at him blandly, leaning forward, and replied, after holding his mouth open for a moment: "They will not begin without us. I say grace." His antique eye twinkled. After this George liked him, and understood that he was really a bishop.