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first sight of course?"

"Yes," said Keating and felt himself being ridiculous. "It must have been

spring," said Toohey. "It usually is. There’s always a dark movie theater, and

two people lost to the world, their hands clasped together--but hands do

perspire when held too long, don’t they? Still, it’s beautiful to be in love.

The sweetest story ever told--and the tritest. Don’t turn away like that,

Catherine. We must never allow ourselves to lose our sense of humor."

He smiled. The kindliness of his smile embraced them both. The kindliness was so

great that it made their love seem small and mean, because only something

contemptible could evoke such immensity of compassion. He asked:

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"Incidentally, Peter, when do you intend to get married?"

"Oh, well...we’ve never really set a definite date, you know how it’s been, all

the things happening to me and now Katie has this work of hers and...And, by the

way," he added sharply, because that matter of Katie’s work irritated him

without reason, "when we’re married, Katie will have to give that up. I don’t

approve of it."

"But of course," said Toohey, "I don’t approve of it either, if Catherine

doesn’t like it."

Catherine was working as day nursery attendant at the Clifford Settlement House.

It had been her own idea. She had visited the settlement often with her uncle,

who conducted classes in economics there, and she had become interested in the

work.

"But I do like it!" she said with sudden excitement. "I don’t see why you resent

it, Peter!" There was a harsh little note in her voice, defiant and unpleasant.

"I’ve never enjoyed anything so much in my life. Helping people who’re helpless

and unhappy. I went there this morning--I didn’t have to, but I wanted to--and

then I rushed so on my way home, I didn’t have time to change my clothes, but

that doesn’t matter, who cares what I look like? And"--the harsh note was gone,

she was speaking eagerly and very fast--"Uncle Ellsworth, imagine! little Billy

Hansen had a sore throat--you remember Billy? And the nurse wasn’t there, and I

had to swab his throat with Argyrol, the poor thing! He had the most awful white

mucus patches down in his throat!" Her voice seemed to shine, as if she were

speaking of great beauty. She looked at her uncle. For the first time Keating

saw the affection he had expected. She went on speaking about her work, the

children, the settlement. Toohey listened gravely. He said nothing. But the

earnest attention in his eyes changed him, his mocking gaiety vanished and he

forgot his own advice, he was being serious, very serious indeed. When he

noticed that Catherine’s plate was empty, he offered her the sandwich tray with

a simple gesture and made it, somehow, a gracious gesture of respect.

Keating waited impatiently till she paused for an instant. He wanted to change

the subject. He glanced about the room and saw the Sunday papers. This was a

question he had wanted to ask for a long time. He asked cautiously:

"Ellsworth...what do you think of Roark?"

"Roark? Roark?" asked Toohey. "Who is Roark?" The too innocent, too trifling

manner in which he repeated the name, with the faint, contemptuous question mark

quite audible at the end, made Keating certain that Toohey knew the name well.

One did not stress total ignorance of a subject if one were in total ignorance

of it. Keating said:

"Howard Roark. You know, the architect. The one who’s doing the Enright House."

"Oh? Oh, yes, someone’s doing that Enright House at last, isn’t he?"

"There’s a picture of it in the Chronicle today."

"Is there? I did glance through the Chronicle."

"And...what do you think of that building?"

"If it were important, I should have remembered it."

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"Of course!" Keating’s syllables danced, as if his breath caught at each one in

passing: "It’s an awful, crazy thing! Like nothing you ever saw or want to see!"

He felt a sense of deliverance. It was as if he had spent his life believing

that he carried a congenital disease, and suddenly the words of the greatest

specialist on earth had pronounced him healthy. He wanted to laugh, freely,

stupidly, without dignity. He wanted to talk.

"Howard’s a friend of mine," he said happily. "A friend of yours? You know him?"

"Do I know him! Why, we went to school together--Stanton, you know--why, he

lived at our house for three years, I can tell you the color of his underwear

and how he takes a shower--I’ve seen him!"

"He lived at your house in Stanton?" Toohey repeated. Toohey spoke with a kind

of cautious precision. The sounds of his voice were small and dry and final,

like the cracks of matches being broken.

It was very peculiar, thought Keating. Toohey was asking him a great many

questions about Howard Roark. But the questions did not make sense. They were

not about buildings, they were not about architecture at all. They were

pointless personal questions--strange to ask about a man of whom he had never

heard before.

"Does he laugh often?"

"Very rarely."

"Does he seem unhappy?"

"Never."

"Did he have many friends at Stanton?"

"He’s never had any friends anywhere."

"The boys didn’t like him?"

"Nobody can like him."

"Why?"

"He makes you feel it would be an impertinence to like him."

"Did he go out, drink, have a good time?"

"Never."

"Does he like money?"

"No."

"Does he like to be admired?"

"No."

"Does he believe in God?"

"No."

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"Does he talk much?"

"Very little."

"Does he listen if others discuss any...ideas with him?"

"He listens. It would be better if he didn’t."

"Why?"

"It would be less insulting--if you know what I mean, when a man listens like

that and you know it hasn’t made the slightest bit of difference to him."

"Did he always want to be an architect?"

"He..."

"What’s the matter, Peter?"

"Nothing. It just occurred to me how strange it is that I’ve never asked myself

that about him before. Here’s what’s strange: you can’t ask that about him. He’s

a maniac on the subject of architecture. It seems to mean so damn much to him

that he’s lost all human perspective. He just has no sense of humor about

himself at all--now there’s a man without a sense of humor, Ellsworth. You don’t

ask what he’d do if he didn’t want to be an architect."

"No," said Toohey. "You ask what he’d do if he couldn’t be an

architect."

"He’d walk over corpses. Any and all of them. All of us. But

he’d be an architect."

Toohey folded his napkin, a crisp little square of cloth on his knee; he folded

it accurately, once across each way, and he ran his fingernail along the edges

to make a sharp crease.

"Do you remember our little youth group of architects, Peter?" he asked. "I’m

making arrangements for a first meeting soon. I’ve spoken to many of our future

members and you’d be flattered by what they said about you as our prospective

chairman."

They talked pleasantly for another half hour. When Keating rose to go, Toohey

declared:

"Oh, yes. I did speak to Lois Cook about you. You’ll hear from her shortly."

"Thank you so much, Ellsworth. By the way, I’m reading Clouds and Shrouds."

"And?"

"Oh, it’s tremendous. You know, Ellsworth, it...it makes you think so

differently about everything you’ve thought before."

"Yes," said Toohey, "doesn’t it?"

He stood at the window, looking out at the last sunshine of a cold, bright

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afternoon. Then he turned and said:

"It’s a lovely day. Probably one of the last this year. Why don’t you take

Catherine out for a little walk, Peter?"

"Oh, I’d love to!" said Catherine eagerly.

"Well, go ahead." Toohey smiled gaily. "What’s the matter, Catherine? Do you

have to wait for my permission?"

When they walked out together, when they were alone in the cold brilliance of

streets flooded with late sunlight, Keating felt himself recapturing everything

Catherine had always meant to him, the strange emotion that he could not keep in

the presence of others. He closed his hand over hers. She withdrew her hand,

took off her glove and slipped her fingers into his. And then he thought

suddenly that hands did perspire when held too long, and he walked faster in

irritation. He thought that they were walking there like Mickey and Minnie Mouse

and that they probably appeared ridiculous to the passers-by. To shake himself

free of these thoughts he glanced down at her face. She was looking straight

ahead at the gold light, he saw her delicate profile and the faint crease of a

smile in the corner of her mouth, a smile of quiet happiness. But he noticed

that the edge of her eyelid was pale and he began to wonder whether she was

anemic.

#

Lois Cook sat on the floor in the middle of her living room, her legs crossed

Turkish fashion, showing large bare knees, gray stockings rolled over tight

garters, and a piece of faded pink drawers. Peter Keating sat on the edge of a

violet satin chaise lounge. Never before had he felt uncomfortable at a first

interview with a client.

Lois Cook was thirty-seven. She had stated insistently, in her publicity and in

private conversation, that she was sixty-four. It was repeated as a whimsical

joke and it created about her name a vague impression of eternal youth. She was

tall, dry, narrow-shouldered and broad-hipped. She had a long, sallow face, and

eyes set close together. Her hair hung about her ears in greasy strands. Her

fingernails were broken. She looked offensively unkempt, with studied

slovenliness as careful as grooming--and for the same purpose.

She talked incessantly, rocking back and forth on her haunches:

"...yes, on the Bowery. A private residence. The shrine on the Bowery. I have

the site, I wanted it and I bought it, as simple as that, or my fool lawyer

bought it for me, you must meet my lawyer, he has halitosis. I don’t know what

you’ll cost me, but it’s unessential, money is commonplace. Cabbage is

commonplace too. It must have three stories and a living room with a tile

floor."

"Miss Cook, I’ve read Clouds and Shrouds and it was a spiritual revelation to

me. Allow me to include myself among the few who understand the courage and

significance of what you’re achieving single-handed while..."

"Oh, can the crap," said Lois Cook and winked at him.

"But I mean it!" he snapped angrily. "I loved your book. I..."

She looked bored.

"It is so commonplace," she drawled, "to be understood by everybody."

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"But Mr. Toohey said..."

"Ah, yes. Mr. Toohey." Her eyes were alert now, insolently guilty, like the eyes

of a child who has just perpetrated some nasty little joke. "Mr. Toohey. I’m

chairman of a little youth group of writers in which Mr. Toohey is very

interested."

"You are?" he said happily. It seemed to be the first direct communication

between them. "Isn’t that interesting! Mr. Toohey is getting together a little

youth group of architects, too, and he’s kind enough to have me in mind for

chairman."

"Oh," she said and winked. "One of us?"

"Of whom?"

He did not know what he had done, but he knew that he had disappointed her in

some way. She began to laugh. She sat there, looking up at him, laughing

deliberately in his face, laughing ungraciously and not gaily.

"What the...!" He controlled himself. "What’s the matter, Miss Cook?"

"Oh my!" she said. "You’re such a sweet, sweet boy and so pretty!"

"Mr. Toohey is a great man," he said angrily. "He’s the most...the noblest

personality I’ve ever..."

"Oh, yes. Mr. Toohey is a wonderful man." Her voice was strange by omission, it

was flagrantly devoid of respect. "My best friend. The most wonderful man on

earth. There’s the earth and there’s Mr. Toohey--a law of nature. Besides, think

how nicely you can rhyme it: Toohey--gooey--phooey--hooey. Nevertheless, he’s a

saint. That’s very rare. As rare as genius. I’m a genius. I want a living room

without windows. No windows at all, remember that when you draw up the plans. No

windows, a tile floor and a black ceiling. And no electricity. I want no

electricity in my house, just kerosene lamps. Kerosene lamps with chimneys, and

candles. To hell with Thomas Edison! Who was he anyway?"

Her words did not disturb him as much as her smile. It was not a smile, it was a

permanent smirk raising the corners of her long mouth, making her look like a

sly, vicious imp.

"And, Keating, I want the house to be ugly. Magnificently ugly. I want it to be

the ugliest house in New York."

"The...ugliest. Miss Cook?"

"Sweetheart, the beautiful is so commonplace!"

"Yes, but...but I...well, I don’t see how I could permit myself to..."

"Keating, where’s your courage? Aren’t you capable of a sublime gesture on

occasion? They all work so hard and struggle and suffer, trying to achieve

beauty, trying to surpass one another in beauty. Let’s surpass them all! Let’s

throw their sweat in their face. Let’s destroy them at one stroke. Let’s be

gods. Let’s be ugly."

He accepted the commission. After a few weeks he stopped feeling uneasy about

it. Wherever he mentioned this new job, he met a respectful curiosity. It was an