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"Drop the compliments."

"But I mean it. How do you always manage to decide?"

"How can you let others decide for you?"

"But you see, I’m not sure, Howard. I’m never sure of myself. I don’t know

whether I’m as good as they all tell me I am. I wouldn’t admit that to anyone

but you. I think it’s because you’re always so sure that I..."

"Petey!" Mrs. Keating’s voice exploded behind them. "Petey, sweetheart! What are

you doing there?"

She stood in the doorway, in her best dress of burgundy taffeta, happy and

angry.

"And here I’ve been sitting all alone, waiting for you! What on earth are you

doing on those filthy steps in your dress suit? Get up this minute! Come on in

the house, boys. I’ve got hot chocolate and cookies ready for you."

"But, Mother. I wanted to speak to Howard about something important," said

Keating. But he rose to his feet.

She seemed not to have heard. She walked into the house. Keating followed.

Roark looked after them, shrugged, rose and went in also.

Mrs. Keating settled down in an armchair, her stiff skirt crackling.

"Well?" she asked. "What were you two discussing out there?"

Keating fingered an ash tray, picked up a matchbox and dropped it, then,

ignoring her, turned to Roark.

"Look, Howard, drop the pose," he said, his voice high. "Shall I junk the

scholarship and go to work, or let Francon wait and grab the Beaux-Arts to

impress the yokels? What do you think?"

Something was gone. The one moment was lost.

"Now, Petey, let me get this straight..." began Mrs. Keating.

"Oh, wait a minute, Mother!...Howard, I’ve got to weigh it carefully. It isn’t

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everyone who can get a scholarship like that. You’re pretty good when you rate

that. A course at the Beaux-Arts--you know how important that is."

"I don’t," said Roark.

"Oh, hell, I know your crazy ideas, but I’m speaking practically, for a man in

my position. Ideals aside for a moment, it certainly is..."

"You don’t want my advice," said Roark.

"Of course I do! I’m asking you!"

But Keating could never be the same when he had an audience, any audience.

Something was gone. He did not know it, but he felt that Roark knew; Roark’s

eyes made him uncomfortable and that made him angry.

"I want to practice architecture," snapped Keating, "not talk about it! Gives

you a great prestige--the old école. Puts you above the rank and file of the

ex-plumbers who think they can build. On the other hand, an opening with

Francon--Guy Francon himself offering it!"

Roark turned away.

"How many boys will match that?" Keating went on blindly. "A year from now

they’ll be boasting they’re working for Smith or Jones if they find work at all.

While I’ll be with Francon & Heyer!"

"You’re quite right, Peter," said Mrs. Keating, rising. "On a question like that

you don’t want to consult your mother. It’s too important. I’ll leave you to

settle it with Mr. Roark."

He looked at his mother. He did not want to hear what she thought of this; he

knew that his only chance to decide was to make the decision before he heard

her; she had stopped, looking at him, ready to turn and leave the room; he knew

it was not a pose--she would leave if he wished it; he wanted her to go; he

wanted it desperately. He said:

"Why, Mother, how can you say that? Of course I want your opinion. What...what

do you think?"

She ignored the raw irritation in his voice. She smiled.

"Petey, I never think anything. It’s up to you. It’s always been up to you."

"Well..." he began hesitantly, watching her, "if I go to the Beaux-Arts..."

"Fine," said Mrs. Keating, "go to the Beaux-Arts. It’s a grand place. A whole

ocean away from your home. Of course, if you go, Mr. Francon will take somebody

else. People will talk about that. Everybody knows that Mr. Francon picks out

the best boy from Stanton every year for his office. I wonder how it’ll look if

some other boy gets the job? But I guess that doesn’t matter."

"What...what will people say?"

"Nothing much, I guess. Only that the other boy was the best man of his class. I

guess he’ll take Shlinker."

"No!" he gulped furiously. "Not Shlinker!"

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"Yes," she said sweetly. "Shlinker."

"But..."

"But why should you care what people will say? All you have to do is please

yourself."

"And you think that Francon..."

"Why should I think of Mr. Francon? It’s nothing to me."

"Mother, you want me to take the job with Francon?"

"I don’t want anything, Petey. You’re the boss."

He wondered whether he really liked his mother. But she was his mother and this

fact was recognized by everybody as meaning automatically that he loved her, and

so he took for granted mat whatever he felt for her was love. He did not know

whether there was any reason why he should respect her judgment. She was his

mother; this was supposed to take the place of reasons.

"Yes, of course, Mother....But...Yes, I know, but.. Howard?"

It was a plea for help. Roark was there, on a davenport in the corner, half

lying, sprawled limply like a kitten. It had often astonished Keating; he had

seen Roark moving with the soundless tension, the control, the precision of a

cat; he had seen him relaxed, like a cat, in shapeless ease, as if his body held

no single solid bone. Roark glanced up at him. He said:

"Peter, you know how I feel about either one of your opportunities. Take your

choice of the lesser evil. What will you learn at the Beaux-Arts? Only more

Renaissance palaces and operetta settings. They’ll kill everything you might

have in you. You do good work, once in a while, when somebody lets you. If you

really want to learn, go to work. Francon is a bastard and a fool, but you will

be building. It will prepare you for going on your own that much sooner."

"Even Mr. Roark can talk sense sometimes," said Mrs. Keating, "even if he does

talk like a truck driver."

"Do you really think that I do good work?" Keating looked at him, as if his eyes

still held the reflection of that one sentence--and nothing else mattered.

"Occasionally," said Roark. "Not often."

"Now that it’s all settled..." began Mrs. Keating.

"I...I’ll have to think it over, Mother."

"Now that it’s all settled, how about the hot chocolate? I’ll have it out to you

in a jiffy!"

She smiled at her son, an innocent smile that declared her obedience and

gratitude, and she rustled out of the room.

Keating paced nervously, stopped, lighted a cigarette, stood spitting the smoke

out in short jerks, then looked at Roark.

"What are you going to do now, Howard?"

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"I?"

"Very thoughtless of me, I know, going on like that about myself. Mother means

well, but she drives me crazy....Well, to hell with that. What are you going to

do?"

"I’m going to New York."

"Oh, swell. To get a job?"

"To get a job."

"In...in architecture?"

"In architecture, Peter."

"That’s grand. I’m glad. Got any definite prospects?

"I’m going to work for Henry Cameron."

"Oh, no, Howard!"

Roark smiled slowly, the corners of his mouth sharp, and said nothing.

"Oh, no, Howard!"

"Yes "

"But he’s nothing, nobody any more! Oh, I know he has a name but he’s done for!

He never gets any important buildings, hasn’t had any for years! They say he’s

got a dump for an office. What kind of future will you get out of him? What will

you learn?"

"Not much. Only how to build."

"For God’s sake, you can’t go on like that, deliberately ruining yourself! I

thought...well, yes, I thought you’d learned something today!"

"I have."

"Look, Howard, if it’s because you think that no one else will have you now, no

one better, why, I’ll help you. I’ll work old Francon and I’ll get connections

and..."

"Thank you, Peter. But it won’t be necessary. It’s settled.

"What did he say?"

"Who?"

"Cameron."

"I’ve never met him."

Then a horn screamed outside. Keating remembered, started off to change his

clothes, collided with his mother at the door and knocked a cup off her loaded

tray.

"Petey!"

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"Never mind, Mother!" He seized her elbows. "I’m in a hurry, sweetheart. A

little party with the boys--now, now, don’t say anything--I won’t be late

and--look! We’ll celebrate my going with Francon & Heyer!"

He kissed her impulsively, with the gay exuberance that made him irresistible at

times, and flew out of the room, up the stairs. Mrs. Keating shook her head,

flustered, reproving and happy.

In his room, while flinging his clothes in all directions, Keating thought

suddenly of a wire he would send to New York. That particular subject had not

been in his mind all day, but it came to him with a sense of desperate urgency;

he wanted to send that wire now, at once. He scribbled it down on a piece of

paper:

"Katie dearest coming New York job Francon love ever

"Peter"

That night Keating raced toward Boston, wedged in between two boys, the wind and

the road whistling past him. And he thought that the world was opening to him

now, like the darkness fleeing before the bobbing headlights. He was free. He

was ready. In a few years--so very soon, for time did not exist in the speed of

that car--his name would ring like a horn, ripping people out of sleep. He was

ready to do great things, magnificent things, things unsurpassed in...in...oh,

hell...in architecture.

3.

PETER KEATING looked at the streets of New York. The people, he observed, were

extremely well dressed.

He had stopped for a moment before the building on Fifth Avenue, where the

office of Francon & Heyer and his first day of work awaited him. He looked at

the men who hurried past. Smart, he thought, smart as hell. He glanced

regretfully at his own clothes. He had a great deal to learn in New York.

When he could delay it no longer, he turned to the door. It was a miniature

Doric portico, every inch of it scaled down to the exact proportions decreed by

the artists who had worn flowing Grecian tunics; between the marble perfection

of the columns a revolving door sparkled with nickel plate, reflecting the

streaks of automobiles flying past. Keating walked through the revolving door,

through the lustrous marble lobby, to an elevator of gilt and red lacquer that

brought him, thirty floors later, to a mahogany door. He saw a slender brass

plate with delicate letters:

FRANCON & HEYER, ARCHITECTS.

The reception room of the office of Francon & Heyer, Architects, looked like a

cool, intimate ballroom in a Colonial mansion. The silver white walls were

paneled with flat pilasters; the pilasters were fluted and curved into Ionic

snails; they supported little pediments broken in the middle to make room for

half a Grecian urn plastered against the wall. Etchings of Greek temples adorned

the panels, too small to be distinguished, but presenting the unmistakable

columns, pediments and crumbling stone.

Quite incongruously, Keating felt as if a conveyor belt was under his feet, from

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the moment he crossed the threshold. It carried him to the reception clerk who

sat at a telephone switchboard behind the white balustrade of a Florentine

balcony. It transferred him to the threshold of a huge drafting room. He saw

long, flat tables, a forest of twisted rods descending from the ceiling to end

in green-shaded lamps, enormous blueprint files, towers of yellow drawers,

papers, tin boxes, sample bricks, pots of glue and calendars from construction

companies, most of them bearing pictures of naked women. The chief draftsman

snapped at Keating, without quite seeing him. He was bored and crackling with

purpose simultaneously. He jerked his thumb in the direction of a locker room,

thrust his chin out toward the door of a locker, and stood, rocking from heels

to toes, while Keating pulled a pearl-gray smock over his stiff, uncertain body.

Francon had insisted on that smock. The conveyor belt stopped at a table in a

corner of the drafting room, where Keating found himself with a set of plans to

expand, the scaggy back of the chief draftsman retreating from him in the

unmistakable manner of having forgotten his existence.

Keating bent over his task at once, his eyes fixed, his throat rigid. He saw

nothing but the pearly shimmer of the paper before him. The steady lines he drew

surprised him, for he felt certain that his hand was jerking an inch back and

forth across the sheet. He followed the lines, not knowing where they led or

why. He knew only that the plan was someone’s tremendous achievement which he

could neither question nor equal. He wondered why he had ever thought of himself

as a potential architect.

Much later, he noticed the wrinkles of a gray smock sticking to a pair of

shoulder blades over the next table. He glanced about him, cautiously at first,

then with curiosity, then with pleasure, then with contempt. When he reached

this last, Peter Keating became himself again and felt love for mankind. He

noticed sallow cheeks, a funny nose, a wart on a receding chin, a stomach

squashed against the edge of a table. He loved these sights. What these could

do, he could do better. He smiled. Peter Keating needed his fellow men.

When he glanced at his plans again, he noticed the flaws glaring at him from the

masterpiece. It was the floor of a private residence, and he noted the twisted