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no knowledge of it, because he slammed his mind shut before the words in which

he was about to preserve it.

She bent down and kissed his forehead. It was the first kiss she had ever given

him.

"I don’t want you to suffer, Peter," she said gently. "This, now, is real--it’s

I--it’s my own words--I don’t want you to suffer--I can’t feel anything

else--but I feel that much."

He pressed his lips to her hand.

When he raised his head, she looked at him as if, for a moment, he was her

husband. She said: "Peter, if you could hold on to it--to what you are now--"

"I love you," he said.

They sat silently together for a long time. He felt no strain in the silence.

The telephone rang.

It was not the sound that destroyed the moment; it was the eagerness with which

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Keating jumped up and ran to answer it. She heard his voice through the open

door, a voice indecent in its relief:

"Hello?...Oh, hello, Ellsworth!...No, not a thing....Free as a lark....Sure,

come over, come right over!...Okey-doke!"

"It’s Ellsworth," he said, returning to the living room. His voice was gay and

it had a touch of insolence. "He wants to drop in."

She said nothing.

He busied himself emptying ash trays that contained a single match or one butt,

gathering newspapers, adding a log to the fire that did not need it, lighting

more lamps. He whistled a tune from a screen operetta.

He ran to open the door when he heard the bell.

"How nice," said Toohey, coming in. "A fire and just the two of you. Hello,

Dominique. Hope I’m not intruding."

"Hello, Ellsworth," she said.

"You’re never intruding," said Keating. "I can’t tell you how glad I am to see

you." He pushed a chair to the fire. "Sit down here, Ellsworth. What’ll you

have? You know, when I heard your voice on the phone...well, I wanted to jump

and yelp like a pup."

"Don’t wag your tail, though," said Toohey. "No, no drinks, thanks. How have you

been, Dominique?"

"Just as I was a year ago," she said.

"But not as you were two years ago?"

"No."

"What did we do two years ago this time?" Keating asked idly.

"You weren’t married," said Toohey. "Prehistorical period. Let me see--what

happened then? I think the Stoddard Temple was just being completed."

"Oh that," said Keating.

Toohey asked: "Hear anything about your friend, Roark...Peter?"

"No. I don’t think he’s worked for a year or more. He’s finished, this time."

"Yes, I think so....What have you been doing, Peter?"

"Nothing much....Oh, I’ve just read The Gallant Gallstone."

"Liked it?"

"Yes! You know, I think it’s a very important book. Because it’s true that

there’s no such thing as free will. We can’t help what we are or what we do.

It’s not our fault. Nobody’s to blame for anything. It’s all in your background

and...and your glands. If you’re good, that’s no achievement of yours--you were

lucky in your glands. If you’re rotten, nobody should punish you--you were

unlucky, that’s all." He was saying it defiantly, with a violence inappropriate

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to a literary discussion. He was not looking at Toohey nor at Dominique, but

speaking to the room and to what that room had witnessed.

"Substantially correct," said Toohey. "To be logical, however, we should not

think of punishment for those who are rotten. Since they suffered through no

fault of their own, since they were unlucky and underendowed, they should

deserve a compensation of some sort--more like a reward."

"Why--yes!" cried Keating. "That’s...that’s logical."

"And just," said Toohey.

"Got the Banner pretty much where you want it, Ellsworth?" asked Dominique.

"What’s that in reference to?"

"The Gallant Gallstone."

"Oh. No, I can’t say I have. Not quite. There are always the--imponderables."

"What are you talking about?" asked Keating. "Professional gossip," said Toohey.

He stretched his hands to the fire and flexed his fingers playfully. "By the

way, Peter, are you doing anything about Stoneridge?"

"God damn it," said Keating. "What’s the matter?"

"You know what’s the matter. You know the bastard better than I do. To have a

project like that going up, now, when it’s manna in the desert, and of all

people to have that son of a bitch Wynand doing it!"

"What’s the matter with Mr. Wynand?"

"Oh come, Ellsworth! You know very well if it were anyone else, I’d get that

commission just like that"--he snapped his fingers--"I wouldn’t even have to

ask, the owner’d come to me. Particularly when he knows that an architect like

me is practically sitting on his fanny now, compared to the work our office

could handle. But Mr. Gail Wynand! You’d think he was a holy Lama who’s just

allergic to the air breathed by architects!"

"I gather you’ve tried?"

"Oh, don’t talk about it. It makes me sick. I think I’ve spent three hundred

dollars feeding lunches and pouring liquor into all sorts of crappy people who

said they could get me to meet him. All I got is hangovers. I think it’d be

easier to meet the Pope."

"I gather you do want to get Stoneridge?"

"Are you baiting me, Ellsworth? I’d give my right arm for it."

"That wouldn’t be advisable. You couldn’t make any drawings then--or pretend to.

It would be preferable to give up something less tangible."

"I’d give my soul."

"Would you, Peter?" asked Dominique. "What’s on your mind, Ellsworth?" Keating

snapped. "Just a practical suggestion," said Toohey. "Who has been your most

effective salesman in the past and got you some of your best commissions?"

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"Why--Dominique I guess."

"That’s right. And since you can’t get to Wynand and it wouldn’t do you any good

if you did, don’t you think Dominique is the one who’ll be able to persuade

him?" Keating stared at him. "Are you crazy, Ellsworth?" Dominique leaned

forward. She seemed interested.

"From what I’ve heard," she said, "Gail Wynand does not do favors for a woman,

unless she’s beautiful. And if she’s beautiful, he doesn’t do it as a favor."

Toohey looked at her, underscoring the fact that he offered no denial.

"It’s silly," snapped Keating angrily. "How would Dominique ever get to see

him?"

"By telephoning his office and making an appointment," said Toohey.

"Who ever told you he’d grant it?"

"He did."

"When?!"

"Late last night. Or early this morning, to be exact."

"Ellsworth!" gasped Keating. He added: "I don’t believe it."

"I do," said Dominique, "or Ellsworth wouldn’t have started this conversation."

She smiled at Toohey. "So Wynand promised you to see me?"

"Yes, my dear."

"How did you work that?"

"Oh, I offered him a convincing argument. However, it would be advisable not to

delay it. You should telephone him tomorrow--if you wish to do it."

"Why can’t she telephone now?" said Keating. "Oh, I guess it’s too late. You’ll

telephone first thing in the morning."

She looked at him, her eyes half closed, and said nothing.

"It’s a long time since you’ve taken any active interest in Peter’s career,"

said Toohey. "Wouldn’t you like to undertake a difficult feat like that--for

Peter’s sake?"

"If Peter wants me to."

"If I want you to?" cried Keating. "Are you both crazy? It’s the chance of a

lifetime, the..." He saw them both looking at him curiously. He snapped: "Oh,

rubbish!"

"What is rubbish, Peter?" asked Dominique.

"Are you going to be stopped by a lot of fool gossip? Why, any other architect’s

wife’d crawl on her hands and knees for a chance like that to..."

"No other architect’s wife would be offered the chance," said Toohey. "No other

architect has a wife like Dominique. You’ve always been so proud of that,

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Peter."

"Dominique can take care of herself in any circumstances."

"There’s no doubt about that."

"All right, Ellsworth," said Dominique. "I’ll telephone Wynand tomorrow."

"Ellsworth, you’re wonderful!" said Keating, not looking at her.

"I believe I’d like a drink now," said Toohey. "We should celebrate."

When Keating hurried out to the kitchen, Toohey and Dominique looked at each

other. He smiled. He glanced at the door through which Keating had gone, then

nodded to her faintly, amused.

"You expected it," said Dominique.

"Of course."

"Now what’s the real purpose, Ellsworth?"

"Why, I want to help you get Stoneridge for Peter. It’s really a terrific

commission."

"Why are you so anxious to have me sleep with Wynand?"

"Don’t you think it would be an interesting experience for all concerned?"

"You’re not satisfied with the way my marriage has turned out, are you,

Ellsworth?"

"Not entirely. Just about fifty percent. Well, nothing’s perfect in this world.

One gathers what one can and then one tries further."

"You were very anxious to have Peter marry me. You knew what the result would

be, better than Peter or I."

"Peter didn’t know it at all."

"Well, it worked--fifty percent. You got Peter Keating where you wanted him--the

leading architect of the country who’s now mud clinging to your galoshes."

"I’ve never liked your style of expression, but it’s always been accurate. I

should have said: who’s now a soul wagging its tail. Your style is gentler."

"But the other fifty percent, Ellsworth? A failure?"

"Approximately total. My fault. I should have known better than to expect anyone

like Peter Keating, even in the role of husband, to destroy you."

"Well, you’re frank."

"I told you once it’s the only method that will work with you. Besides, surely

it didn’t take you two years to discover what I wanted of that marriage?"

"So you think Gail Wynand will finish the job?"

"Might. What do you think?"

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"I think I’m only a side issue again. Didn’t you call it ’gravy’ once? What have

you got against Wynand?"

He laughed; the sound betrayed that he had not expected the question. She said

contemptuously: "Don’t show that you’re shocked, Ellsworth."

"All right. We’re taking it straight. I have nothing specific against Mr. Gail

Wynand. I’ve been planning to have him meet you, for a long time. If you want

minor details, he did something that annoyed me yesterday morning. He’s too

observant. So I decided the time was right."

"And there was Stoneridge."

"And there was Stoneridge. I knew that part of it would appeal to you. You’d

never sell yourself to save your country, your soul or the life of a man you

loved. But you’ll sell yourself to get a commission he doesn’t deserve for Peter

Keating. See what will be left of you afterward. Or of Gail Wynand. I’ll be

interested to see it, too."

"Quite correct, Ellsworth."

"All of it? Even the part about a man you loved--if you did?"

"Yes."

"You wouldn’t sell yourself for Roark? Though, of course, you don’t like to hear

that name pronounced."

"Howard Roark," she said evenly.

"You have a great deal of courage, Dominique."

Keating returned, carrying a tray of cocktails. His eyes were feverish and he

made too many gestures.

Toohey raised his glass. He said:

"To Gail Wynand and the New York Banner!"

3.

GAIL WYNAND rose and met her halfway across his office.

"How do you do, Mrs. Keating," he said.

"How do you do, Mr. Wynand," said Dominique.

He moved a chair for her, but when she sat down he did not cross to sit behind

his desk, he stood studying her professionally, appraisingly. His manner implied

a self-evident necessity, as if his reason were known to her and there could be

nothing improper in this behavior.

"You look like a stylized version of your own stylized version," he said. "As a

rule seeing the models of art works tends to make one atheistic. But this time

it’s a close one between that sculptor and God."

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"What sculptor?"

"The one who did that statue of you."

He had felt that there was some story behind the statue and he became certain of

it now, by something in her face, a tightening that contradicted, for a second,

the trim indifference of her self-control.

"Where and when did you see that statue, Mr. Wynand?"

"In my art gallery, this morning."

"Where did you get it?"

It was his turn to show perplexity. "But don’t you know that?"

"No."

"Your friend Ellsworth Toohey sent it to me. As a present."

"To get this appointment for me?"

"Not through as direct a motivation as I believe you’re thinking. But in

substance--yes."

"He hasn’t told me that."

"Do you mind my having that statue?"

"Not particularly."

"I expected you to say that you were delighted."--"I’m not."

He sat down, informally, on the outer edge of his desk, his legs stretched out,

his ankles crossed. He asked:

"I gather you lost track of that statue and have been trying to find it?"