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of it and he was afraid of it now; but he had two fragile protections: the snow

and the girl beside him. "Katie," he whispered, "Katie..."

"I love you, Peter...."

"Katie," he said, without hesitation, without emphasis, because the certainty of

his words allowed no excitement, "we’re engaged, aren’t we?"

He saw her chin move faintly as it dropped and rose to form one word.

"Yes," she said calmly, so solemnly that the word sounded indifferent.

She had never allowed herself to question the future, for a question would have

been an admission of doubt. But she knew, when she pronounced the "yes," that

she had waited for this and that she would shatter it if she were too happy.

"In a year or two," he said holding her hand tightly, "we’ll be married. Just as

soon as I’m on my feet and set with the firm for good. I have mother to take

care of, but in another year it will be all right." He tried to speak as coldly,

as practically as he could, not to spoil the wonder of what he felt. "I’ll wait,

Peter," she whispered. "We don’t have to hurry."

"We won’t tell anyone, Katie....It’s our secret, just ours until..." And

suddenly a thought came to him, and he realized, aghast, that he could not prove

it had never occurred to him before; yet he knew, in complete honesty, even

though it did astonish him, that he had never thought of this before. He pushed

her aside. He said angrily: "Katie! You won’t think that it’s because of that

great, damnable uncle of yours?"

She laughed; the sound was light and unconcerned, and he knew that he was

vindicated.

"Lord, no, Peter! He won’t like it, of course, but what do we care?"

"He won’t like it? Why?"

"Oh, I don’t think he approves of marriage. Not that he preaches anything

immoral, but he’s always told me marriage is old-fashioned, an economic device

to perpetuate the institution of private property, or something like that or

anyway that he doesn’t like it."

"Well, that’s wonderful! We’ll show him."

In all sincerity, he was glad of it. It removed, not from his mind which he knew

to be innocent, but from all other minds where it could occur, the suspicion

that there had been in his feeling for her any hint of such considerations as

applied to...to Francon’s daughter, for instance. He thought it was strange that

this should seem so important; that he should wish so desperately to keep his

feeling for her free from ties to all other people.

He let his head fall back, he felt the bite of snowflakes on his lips. Then he

turned and kissed her. The touch of her mouth was soft and cold with the snow.

Her hat had slipped to one side, her lips were half open, her eyes round,

helpless, her lashes glistening. He held her hand, palm up, and looked at it:

she wore a black woolen glove and her fingers were spread out clumsily like a

child’s; he saw beads of melted snow in the fuzz of the glove; they sparkled

radiantly once in the light of a car flashing past.

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7.

THE BULLETIN of the Architects’ Guild of America carried, in its Miscellaneous

Department, a short item announcing Henry Cameron’s retirement. Six lines

summarized his achievements in architecture and misspelled the names of his two

best buildings.

Peter Keating walked into Francon’s office and interrupted Francon’s well-bred

bargaining with an antique dealer over a snuffbox that had belonged to Madame

Pompadour. Francon was precipitated into paying nine dollars and twenty-five

cents more than he had intended to pay. He turned to Keating testily, after the

dealer had left, and asked:

"Well, what is it, Peter, what is it?"

Keating threw the bulletin down on Francon’s desk, his thumbnail underscoring

the paragraph about Cameron.

"I’ve got to have that man," said Keating.

"What man?"

"Howard Roark."

"Who the hell," asked Francon, "is Howard Roark?"

"I’ve told you about him. Cameron’s designer."

"Oh...oh, yes, I believe you did. Well, go and get him."

"Do you give me a free hand on how I hire him?"

"What the hell? What is there about hiring another draftsman? Incidentally, did

you have to interrupt me for that?"

"He might be difficult. And I want to get him before he decides on anyone else."

"Really? He’s going to be difficult about it, is he? Do you intend to beg him to

come here after Cameron’s? Which is not great recommendation for a young man

anyway."

"Come on, Guy. Isn’t it?"

"Oh well...well, speaking structurally, not esthetically, Cameron does give them

a thorough grounding and...Of course, Cameron was pretty important in his day.

As a matter of fact, I was one of his best draftsmen myself once, long ago.

There’s something to be said for old Cameron when you need that sort of thing.

Go ahead. Get your Roark if you think you need him."

"It’s not that I really need him. But he’s an old friend of mine, and out of a

job, and I thought it would be a nice thing to do for him."

"Well, do anything you wish. Only don’t bother me about it....Say, Peter, don’t

you think this is as lovely a snuffbox as you’ve ever seen?"

That evening, Keating climbed, unannounced, to Roark’s room and knocked,

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nervously, and entered cheerfully. He found Roark sitting on the window sill,

smoking.

"Just passing by," said Keating, "with an evening to kill and happened to think

that that’s where you live, Howard, and thought I’d drop in to say hello,

haven’t seen you for such a long time."

"I know what you want," said Roark. "All right. How much?"

"What do you mean, Howard?"

"You know what I mean."

"Sixty-five a week," Keating blurted out. This was not the elaborate approach he

had prepared, but he had not expected to find that no approach would be

necessary. "Sixty-five to start with. If you think it’s not enough, I could

maybe..."

"Sixty-five will do."

"You...you’ll come with us, Howard?"

"When do you want me to start?"

"Why...as soon as you can! Monday?"

"ALL right."

"Thanks, Howard!"

"On one condition," said Roark. "I’m not going to do any designing. Not any. No

details. No Louis XV skyscrapers. Just keep me off esthetics if you want to keep

me at all. Put me in the engineering department. Send me on inspections, out in

the field. Now, do you still want me?"

"Certainly. Anything you say. You’ll like the place, just wait and see. You’ll

like Francon. He’s one of Cameron’s men himself."

"He shouldn’t boast about it."

"Well..."

"No. Don’t worry. I won’t say it to his face. I won’t say anything to anyone. Is

that what you wanted to know?"

"Why, no, I wasn’t worried, I wasn’t even thinking of that."

"Then it’s settled. Good night. See you Monday."

"Well, yes...but I’m in no special hurry, really I came to see you and..."

"What’s the matter, Peter? Something bothering you?"

"No...I..."

"You want to know why I’m doing it?" Roark smiled, without resentment or

interest. "Is that it? I’ll tell you, if you want to know. I don’t give a damn

where I work next. There’s no architect in town that I’d want to work for. But I

have to work somewhere, so it might as well be your Francon--if I can get what I

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want from you. I’m selling myself, and I’ll play the game that way--for the time

being."

"Really, Howard, you don’t have to look at it like that. There’s no limit to how

far you can go with us, once you get used to it. You’ll see, for a change, what

a real office looks like. After Cameron’s dump..."

"We’ll shut up about that, Peter, and we’ll do it damn fast."

"I didn’t mean to criticize or...I didn’t mean anything." He did not know what

to say nor what he should feel. It was a victory, but it seemed hollow. Still,

it was a victory and he felt that he wanted to feel affection for Roark.

"Howard, let’s go out and have a drink, just sort of to celebrate the occasion."

"Sorry, Peter. That’s not part of the job."

Keating had come here prepared to exercise caution and tact to the limit of his

ability; he had achieved a purpose he had not expected to achieve; he knew he

should take no chances, say nothing else and leave. But something inexplicable,

beyond all practical considerations, was pushing him on. He said unheedingly:

"Can’t you be human for once in your life?"

"What?"

"Human! Simple. Natural."

"But I am."

"Can’t you ever relax?"

Roark smiled, because he was sitting on the window sill, leaning sloppily

against the wall, his long legs hanging loosely, the cigarette held without

pressure between limp fingers.

"That’s not what I mean!" said Keating. "Why can’t you go out for a drink with

me?"

"What for?"

"Do you always have to have a purpose? Do you always have to be so damn serious?

Can’t you ever do things without reason, just like everybody else? You’re so

serious, so old. Everything’s important with you, everything’s great,

significant in some way, every minute, even when you keep still. Can’t you ever

be comfortable--and unimportant?"

"No."

"Don’t you get tired of the heroic?"

"What’s heroic about me?"

"Nothing. Everything. I don’t know. It’s not what you do. It’s what you make

people feel around you."

"What?"

"The un-normal. The strain. When I’m with you--it’s always like a choice.

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Between you--and the rest of the world. I don’t want that kind of a choice. I

don’t want to be an outsider. I want to belong. There’s so much in the world

that’s simple and pleasant. It’s not all fighting and renunciation. It is--with

you."

"What have I ever renounced?"

"Oh, you’ll never renounce anything! You’d walk over corpses for what you want.

But it’s what you’ve renounced by never wanting it."

"That’s because you can’t want both."

"Both what?"

"Look, Peter. I’ve never told you any of those things about me. What makes you

see them? I’ve never asked you to make a choice between me and anything else.

What makes you feel that there is a choice involved? What makes you

uncomfortable when you feel that--since you’re so sure I’m wrong?"

"I...I don’t know." He added: "I don’t know what you’re talking about." And then

he asked suddenly:

"Howard, why do you hate me?"

"I don’t hate you."

"Well, that’s it! Why don’t you hate me at least?"

"Why should I?"

"Just to give me something. I know you can’t like me. You can’t like anybody. So

it would be kinder to acknowledge people’s existence by hating them."

"I’m not kind, Peter."

And as Keating found nothing to say, Roark added:

"Go home, Peter. You got what you wanted. Let it go at that. See you Monday."

#

Roark stood at a table in the drafting room of Francon & Heyer, a pencil in his

hand, a strand of orange hair hanging down over his face, the prescribed

pearl-gray smock like a prison uniform on his body.

He had learned to accept his new job. The lines he drew were to be the clean

lines of steel beams, and he tried not to think of what these beams would carry.

It was difficult, at times. Between him and the plan of the building on which he

was working stood the plan of that building as it should have been. He saw what

he could make of it, how to change the lines he drew, where to lead them in

order to achieve a thing of splendor. He had to choke the knowledge. He had to

kill the vision. He had to obey and draw the lines as instructed. It hurt him so

much that he shrugged at himself in cold anger. He thought: difficult?--well,

learn it.

But the pain remained--and a helpless wonder. The thing he saw was so much more

real than the reality of paper, office and commission. He could not understand

what made others blind to it, and what made their indifference possible. He

looked at the paper before him. He wondered why ineptitude should exist and have

its say. He had never known that. And the reality which permitted it could never

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become quite real to him.

But he knew that this would not last--he had to wait--it was his only

assignment, to wait--what he felt didn’t matter--it had to be done--he had to

wait.

"Mr. Roark, are you ready with the steel cage for the Gothic lantern for the

American Radio Corporation Building?"

He had no friends in the drafting room. He was there like a piece of furniture,

as useful, as impersonal and as silent. Only the chief of the engineering

department, to which Roark was assigned, had said to Keating after the first two

weeks: "You’ve got more sense than I gave you credit for, Keating. Thanks."

"For what?" asked Keating. "For nothing that was intentional, I’m sure," said

the chief.

Once in a while, Keating stopped by Roark’s table to say softly: "Will you drop

in at my office when you’re through tonight, Howard? Nothing important."

When Roark came, Keating began by saying: "Well, how do you like it here,

Howard? If there’s anything you want, just say so and I’ll..." Roark interrupted

to ask: "Where is it, this time?" Keating produced sketches from a drawer and

said: "I know it’s perfectly right, just as it is, but what do you think of it,

generally speaking?" Roark looked at the sketches, and even though he wanted to