"Can Sir Isaac Davids speak to you, sir, from the Artists Club?"
"Put him on."
Immediately came the thick, rich voice of Sir Isaac, with its implications of cynicism and triumphant disdain—attenuated and weakened in the telephone, suggesting an object seen through the wrong end of a telescope.
"Is that you, Cannon?"
"It is," said George shortly. Without yet knowing it, he had already begun to hate Sir Isaac. His criticism of Sir Isaac was that the man was too damnably sure of himself. And not all Sir Isaac's obvious power, and influence, and vast potential usefulness to a young architect, could prevent George from occasionally, as he put it, 'standing up to the fellow.'
"Well, you'd better come along here, if you can. I want to see you," said the unruffled voice of Sir Isaac.
"Now?"
"Yes."
"All right."
As George replaced the instrument, he murmured: