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step you take. I will fight to tear every chance you want away from you. I will

hurt you through the only thing that can hurt you--through your work. I will

fight to starve you, to strangle you on the things you won’t be able to reach. I

have done it to you today--and that is why I shall sleep with you tonight."

He sat deep in his chair, stretched out, his body relaxed, and taut in

relaxation, a stillness being filled slowly with the violence of future motion.

"I have hurt you today. I’ll do it again. I’ll come to you whenever I have

beaten you--whenever I know that I have hurt you--and I’ll let you own me. I

want to be owned, not by a lover, but by an adversary who will destroy my

victory over him, not with honorable blows, but with the touch of his body on

mine. That is what I want of you, Roark. That is what I am. You wanted to hear

it all. You’ve heard it. What do you wish to say now?"

"Take your clothes off."

She stood still for a moment; two hard spots swelled and grew white under the

corners of her mouth. Then she saw a movement in the cloth of his shirt, one

jolt of controlled breath--and she smiled in her turn, derisively, as he had

always smiled at her.

She lifted her two hands to her collar and unfastened the buttons of her jacket,

simply, precisely, one after another. She threw the jacket down on the floor,

she took off a thin white blouse, and she noticed the tight black gloves on the

wrists of her naked arms. She took the gloves off, pulling at each finger in

turn. She undressed indifferently, as if she were alone in her own bedroom.

Then she looked at him. She stood naked, waiting, feeling the space between them

like a pressure against her stomach, knowing that it was torture for him also

and that it was as they both wanted it. Then he got up, he walked to her, and

when he held her, her arms rose willingly and she felt the shape of his body

imprinted into the skin on the inside of her arm as it encircled him, his ribs,

his armpit, his back, his shoulder blade under her fingers, her mouth on his, in

a surrender more violent than her struggle had been.

Afterward, she lay in bed by his side, under his blanket, looking at his room,

and she asked:

"Roark, why were you working in that quarry?"

"You know it."

"Yes. Anyone else would have taken a job in an architect’s office."

"And then you’d have no desire at all to destroy me."

"You understand that?"

"Yes. Keep still. It doesn’t matter now."

"Do you know that the Enright House is the most beautiful building in New York?"

"I know that you know it."

"Roark, you worked in that quarry when you had the Enright House in you, and

many other Enright Houses, and you were drilling granite like a..."

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"You’re going to weaken in a moment, Dominique, and then you’ll regret it

tomorrow."

"Yes."

"You’re very lovely, Dominique."

"Don’t."

"You’re lovely."

"Roark, I...I’ll still want to destroy you."

"Do you think I would want you if you didn’t?"

"Roark..."

"You want to hear that again? Part of it? I want you, Dominique. I want you. I

want you."

"I..." She stopped, the word on which she stopped almost audible in her breath.

"No," he said. "Not yet. You won’t say that yet. Go to sleep.

"Here? With you?"

"Here. With me. I’ll fix breakfast for you in the morning. Did you know that I

fix my own breakfast? You’ll like seeing that. Like the work in the quarry. Then

you’ll go home and think about destroying me. Good night, Dominique."

8.

THE BLINDS raised over the windows of her living room, the lights of the city

rising to a black horizon halfway up the glass panes, Dominique sat at her desk,

correcting the last sheets of an article, when she heard the doorbell. Guests

did not disturb her without warning--and she looked up, the pencil held in

midair, angry and curious. She heard the steps of the maid in the hall, then the

maid came in, saying: "A gentleman to see you, madam," a faint hostility in her

voice explaining that the gentleman had refused to give his name.

A man with orange hair?--Dominique wanted to ask, but didn’t; the pencil jerked

stiffly and she said: "Have him come

Then the door opened; against the light of the hall she saw a long neck and

sloping shoulders, like the silhouette of a bottle; a rich, creamy voice said,

"Good evening, Dominique," and she recognized Ellsworth Toohey whom she had

never asked to her house. ,

She smiled. She said: "Good evening, Ellsworth. I haven’t seen you for such a

long time."

"You should have expected me now, don’t you think so?" He turned to the maid:

"Cointreau, please, if you have it, and I’m sure you do."

The maid glanced at Dominique, wide-eyed; Dominique nodded silently, and the

maid went out, closing the door.

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"Busy, of course?" said Toohey, glancing at the littered desk. "Very becoming,

Dominique. Gets results, too. You’ve been writing much better lately."

She let the pencil fall, and threw an arm over the back of her chair, half

turning to him, watching him placidly. "What do you want, Ellsworth?"

He did not sit down, but stood examining the place with the unhurried curiosity

of an expert.

"Not bad, Dominique. Just about as I’d expect you to have it. A little cold. You

know, I wouldn’t have that ice-blue chair over there. Too obvious. Fits in too

well. Just what people would expect in just that spot. I’d have it carrot red.

An ugly, glaring, outrageous red. Like Mr. Howard Roark’s hair. That’s quite en

passant--merely a convenient figure of speech--nothing personal at all. Just one

touch of the wrong color would make the whole room. The sort of thing that gives

a place elegance. Your flower arrangements are nice. The pictures, too--not

bad."

"All right, Ellsworth, all right, what is it?"

"But don’t you know that I’ve never been here before? Somehow, you’ve never

asked me. I don’t know why." He sat down comfortably, resting an ankle on a

knee, one thin leg stretched horizontally across the other, the full length of a

tight, gunmetal sock exposed under the trouser cuff, and a patch of skin showing

above the sock, bluish-white with a few black hairs. "But then, you’ve been so

unsociable. The past tense, my dear, the past tense. Did you say that we haven’t

seen each other for a long time? That’s true. You’ve been so busy--in such an

unusual way. Visits, dinners, speakeasies and giving tea parties. Haven’t you?"

"I have."

"Tea parties--I thought that was tops. This is a good room for

parties--large--plenty of space to stuff people into--particularly if you’re not

particular whom you stuff it with--and you’re not. Not now. What do you serve

them? Anchovy paste and minced egg cut out like hearts?"

"Caviar and minced onion cut out like stars."

"What about the old ladies?"

"Cream cheese and chopped walnuts--in spirals."

"I’d like to have seen you taking care of things like that. It’s wonderful how

thoughtful you’ve become of old ladies. Particularly the filthy rich--with

sons-in-law in real estate. Though I don’t think that’s as bad as going to see

Knock Me Flat with Commodore Higbee who has false teeth and a nice vacant lot on

the corner of Broadway and Chambers."

The maid came in with the tray. Toohey took a glass and held it delicately,

inhaling, while the maid went out.

"Will you tell me why the secret service department--I won’t ask who--and why

the detailed reports on ray activities?" Dominique said indifferently.

"You can ask who. Anyone and everyone. Don’t you suppose people are talking

about Miss Dominique Francon in the role of a famous hostess--so suddenly? Miss

Dominique Francon as a sort of second Kiki Holcombe, but much better--oh

much!--much subtler, much abler, and then, just think, how much more beautiful.

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It’s about time you made some use of that superlative appearance of yours that

any woman would cut your throat for. It’s still being wasted, of course, if one

thinks of form in relation to its proper function, but at least some people are

getting some good out of it. Your father, for instance. I’m sure he’s delighted

with this new life of yours. Little Dominique being friendly to people. Little

Dominique who’s become normal at last. He’s wrong, of course, but it’s nice to

make him happy. A few others, too. Me, for instance. Though you’d never do

anything just to make me happy, but then, you see, that’s my lucky faculty--to

extract joy from what was not intended for me at all, in a purely selfless way."

"You’re not answering my question."

"But I am. You asked why the interest in your activities--and I answer: because

they make me happy. Besides, look, one could be astonished--though

shortsightedly--if I were gathering information on the activities of my enemies.

But not to be informed about the actions of my own side--really, you know, you

didn’t think I’d be so unskilled a general, and whatever else you might think of

me, you’ve never thought me unskilled."

"Your side, Ellsworth?"

"Look, Dominique, that’s the trouble with your written--and spoken--style: you

use too many question marks. Bad, in any case. Particularly bad when

unnecessary. Let’s drop the quiz technique--and just talk. Since we both

understand and there aren’t any questions to be asked between us. If there

were--you’d have thrown me out. Instead, you gave me a very expensive liqueur."

He held the rim of the glass under his nose and inhaled with a loose kind of

sensual relish, which, at a dinner table, would have been equivalent to a loud

lipsmacking, vulgar there, superlatively elegant here, over a cut-crystal edge

pressed to a neat little mustache.

"All right," she said. "Talk."

"That’s what I’ve been doing. Which is considerate of me--since you’re not ready

to talk. Not yet, for a while. Well, let’s talk--in a purely contemplative

manner--about how interesting it is to see people welcoming you into their midst

so eagerly, accepting you, flocking to you. Why is it, do you suppose? They do

plenty of snubbing on their own, but just let someone who’s snubbed them all her

life suddenly break down and turn gregarious--and they all come rolling on their

backs with their paws folded, for you to rub their bellies. Why? There could be

two explanations, I think. The nice one would be that they are generous and wish

to honor you with their friendship. Only the nice explanations are never the

true ones. The other one is that they know you’re degrading yourself by needing

them, you’re coming down off a pinnacle--every loneliness is a pinnacle--and

they’re delighted to drag you down through their friendship. Though, of course,

none of them knows it consciously, except yourself. That’s why you go through

agonies, doing it, and you’d never do it for a noble cause, you’d never do it

except for the end you’ve chosen, an end viler than the means and making the

means endurable."

"You know, Ellsworth, you’ve said a sentence there that you’d never use in your

column."

"Did I? Undoubtedly. I can say a great many things to you that I’d never use in

my column. Which one?"

"Every loneliness is a pinnacle."

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"That? Yes, quite right. I wouldn’t. You’re welcome to it--though it’s not too

good. Fairly crude. I’ll give you better ones some day, if you wish. Sorry,

however, that that’s all you picked out of my little speech."

"What did you want me to pick?"

"Well, my two explanations, for instance. There’s an interesting question there.

What is kinder--to believe the best of people and burden them with a nobility

beyond their endurance--or to see them as they are, and accept it because it

makes them comfortable? Kindness being more important than justice, of course."

"I don’t give a damn, Ellsworth."

"Not in a mood for abstract speculation? Interested only in concrete results?

All right. How many commissions have you landed for Peter Keating in the last

three months?"

She rose, walked to the tray which the maid had left, poured herself a drink,

and said: "Four," raising the glass to her mouth. Then she turned to look at

him, standing, glass in hand, and added: "And that was the famous Toohey

technique. Never place your punch at the beginning of a column nor at the end.

Sneak it in where it’s least expected. Fill a whole column with drivel, just to

get in that one important line."

He bowed courteously. "Quite. That’s why I like to talk to you. It’s such a

waste to be subtle and vicious with people who don’t even know that you’re being

subtle and vicious. But the drivel is never accidental, Dominique. Also, I

didn’t know that the technique of my column was becoming obvious. I will have to

think of a new one."

"Don’t bother. They love it."

"Of course. They’ll love anything I write. So it’s four? I missed one. I counted

three."

"I can’t understand why you had to come here if that’s all you wanted to know.

You’re so fond of Peter Keating, and I’m helping him along beautifully, better

than you could, so if you wanted to give me a pep talk about Petey--it wasn’t

necessary, was it?"

"You’re wrong there twice in one sentence, Dominique. One honest error and one

lie. The honest error is the assumption that I wish to help Petey Keating--and,

incidentally, I can help him much better than you can, and I have and will, but

that’s long-range contemplation. The lie is that I came here to talk about Peter

Keating--you knew what I came here to talk about when you saw me enter. And--oh