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"For two years."

"You can’t have it." He added, watching her: "You might have Stoneridge."

"I shall change my mind. I’m delighted that Toohey gave it to you."

He felt a bitter little stab of triumph--and of disappointment, in thinking that

he could read her mind and that her mind was obvious, after all. He asked:

"Because it gave you this interview?"

"No. Because you’re the person before last in the world whom I’d like to have

that statue. But Toohey is last."

He lost the triumph; it was not a thing which a woman intent on Stoneridge

should have said or thought. He asked:

"You didn’t know that Toohey had it?"

"No."

377

"We should get together on our mutual friend, Mr. Ellsworth Toohey. I don’t like

being a pawn and I don’t think you do or could ever be made to. There are too

many things Mr. Toohey chose not to tell. The name of that sculptor, for

instance."

"He didn’t tell you that?"

"No."

"Steven Mallory."

"Mallory?...Not the one who tried to..." He laughed aloud.

"What’s the matter?"

"Toohey told me he couldn’t remember the name. That name."

"Does Mr. Toohey still astonish you?"

"He has, several times, in the last few days. There’s a special kind of subtlety

in being as blatant as he’s been. A very difficult kind. I almost like his

artistry."

"I don’t share your taste."

"Not in any field? Not in sculpture--or architecture?"

"I’m sure not in architecture."

"Isn’t that the utterly wrong thing for you to say?"

"Probably."

He looked at her. He said: "You’re interesting."

"I didn’t intend to be."

"That’s your third mistake."

"Third?"

"The first was about Mr. Toohey. In the circumstances, one would expect you to

praise him to me. To quote him. To lean on his great prestige in matters of

architecture."

"But one would expect you to know Ellsworth Toohey. That should disqualify any

quotations."

"I intended to say that to you--had you given me the chance you won’t give me."

"That should make it more entertaining."

"You expected to be entertained?"

"I am."

"About the statue?" It was the only point of weakness he had discovered.

378

"No." Her voice was hard. "Not about the statue."

"Tell me, when was it made and for whom?"

"Is that another thing Mr. Toohey forgot?"

"Apparently."

"Do you remember a scandal about a building called the Stoddard Temple? Two

years ago. You were away at the time."

"The Stoddard Temple....How do you happen to know where I was two years

ago?...Wait, the Stoddard Temple. I remember: a sacrilegious church or some such

object that gave the Bible brigade a howling spree."

"Yes."

"There was..." He stopped. His voice sounded hard and reluctant--like hers.

"There was the statue of a naked woman involved."

"Yes."

"I see."

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, his voice harsh, as if he were holding

back some anger whose object she could not guess:

"I was somewhere around Bali at the time. I’m sorry all New York saw that statue

before I did. But I don’t read newspapers when I’m sailing. There’s a standing

order to fire any man who brings a Wynand paper around the yacht."

"Have you ever seen pictures of the Stoddard Temple?"

"No. Was the building worthy of the statue?"

"The statue was almost worthy of the building."

"It has been destroyed, hasn’t it?"

"Yes. With the help of the Wynand papers."

He shrugged. "I remember Alvah Scarret had a good time with it. A big story.

Sorry I missed it. But Alvah did very well. Incidentally, how did you know that

I was away and why has the fact of my absence remained in your memory?"

"It was the story that cost me my job with you."

"Your job? With me?"

"Didn’t you know that my name was Dominique Francon?"

Under the trim jacket his shoulders made a sagging movement forward; it was

surprise--and helplessness. He stared at her, quite simply. After a while, he

said: "No."

She smiled indifferently. She said: "It appears that Toohey wanted to make it as

difficult for both of us as he could."

"To hell with Toohey. This has to be understood. It doesn’t make sense. You’re

379

Dominique Francon?"

"I was."

"You worked here, in this building, for years?"

"For six years."

"Why haven’t I met you before?"

"I’m sure you don’t meet every one of your employees."

"I think you understand what I mean."

"Do you wish me to state it for you?"

"Yes."

"Why haven’t I tried to meet you before?"

"Yes."

"I had no desire to."

"That, precisely, doesn’t make sense."

"Shall I let this go by or understand it?"

"I’ll spare you the choice. With the kind of beauty you possess and with

knowledge of the kind of reputation I am said to possess--why didn’t you attempt

to make a real career for yourself on the Banner!"

"I never wanted a real career on the Banner."

"Why?"

"Perhaps for the same reason that makes you forbid Wynand papers on your yacht."

"It’s a good reason," he said quietly. Then he asked, his voice casual again:

"Let’s see, what was it you did to get fired? You went against our policy, I

believe?"

"I tried to defend the Stoddard Temple."

"Didn’t you know better than to attempt sincerity on the Banner?"

"I intended to say that to you--if you’d given me the chance."

"Are you being entertained?"

"I wasn’t, then. I liked working here."

"You’re the only one who’s ever said that in this building."

"I must be one of two."

"Who’s the other?"

"Yourself, Mr. Wynand."

380

"Don’t be too sure of that." Lifting his head, he saw the hint of amusement in

her eyes and asked: "You said it just to trap me into that kind of a statement?"

"Yes, I think so," she answered placidly. "Dominique Francon..." he repeated,

not addressing her. "I used to like your stuff. I almost wish you were here to

ask for your old job."

"I’m here to discuss Stoneridge."

"Ah, yes, of course." He settled back, to enjoy a long speech of persuasion. He

thought it would be interesting to hear what arguments she’d choose and how

she’d act in the role of petitioner. "Well, what do you wish to tell me about

that?"

"I should like you to give that commission to my husband. I understand, of

course, that there’s no reason why you should do so--unless I agree to sleep

with you in exchange. If you consider that a sufficient reason--I am willing to

do it."

He looked at her silently, allowing no hint of personal reaction in his face.

She sat looking up at him, faintly astonished by his scrutiny, as if her words

had deserved no special attention. He could not force on himself, though he was

seeking it fiercely, any other impression of her face than the incongruous one

of undisturbed purity.

He said:

"That is what I was to suggest. But not so crudely and not on our first

meeting."

"I have saved you time and lies."

"You love your husband very much?"

"I despise him."

"You have a great faith in his artistic genius?"

"I think he’s a third-rate architect."

"Then why are you doing this?"

"It amuses me."

"I thought I was the only who acted on such motives."

"You shouldn’t mind. I don’t believe you’ve ever found originality a desirable

virtue, Mr. Wynand."

"Actually, you don’t care whether your husband gets Stoneridge or not?"

"No."

"And you have no desire to sleep with me?"

"None at all."

"I could admire a woman who’d put on an act like that. Only it’s not an act."

381

"It’s not. Please don’t begin admiring me. I have tried to avoid it."

Whenever he smiled no obvious movement was required of his facial muscles; the

hint of mockery was always there and it merely came into sharper focus for a

moment, to recede imperceptibly again. The focus was sharper now.

"As a matter of fact," he said, "your chief motive is I, after all. The desire

to give yourself to me." He saw the glance she could not control and added: "No,

don’t enjoy the thought that I have fallen into so gross an error. I didn’t mean

it in the usual sense. But in its exact opposite. Didn’t you say you considered

me the person before last in the world? You don’t want Stoneridge. You want to

sell yourself for the lowest motive to the lowest person you can find."

"I didn’t expect you to understand that," she said simply.

"You want--men do that sometimes, not women--to express through the sexual act

your utter contempt for me."

"No, Mr. Wynand. For myself."

The thin line of his mouth moved faintly, as if his lips had caught the first

hint of a personal revelation--an involuntary one and, therefore, a

weakness--and were holding it tight while he spoke:

"Most people go to very to very great lengths in order to convince themselves of

their self-respect."

"Yes."

"And, of course, a quest for self-respect is proof of its lack."

"Yes."

"Do you see the meaning of a quest for self-contempt?"

"That I lack it?"

"And that you’ll never achieve it."

"I didn’t expect you to understand that either."

"I won’t say anything else--or I’ll stop being the person before last in the

world and I’ll become unsuitable to your purpose." He rose. "Shall I tell you

formally that I accept your offer?"

She inclined her head in agreement.

"As a matter of fact," he said, "I don’t care whom I choose to build Stoneridge.

I’ve never hired a good architect for any of the things I’ve built. I give the

public what it wants. I was stuck for a choice this time, because I’m tired of

the bunglers who’ve worked for me, and it’s hard to decide without standards or

reason. I’m sure you don’t mind my saying this. I’m really grateful to you for

giving me a much better motive than any I could hope to find."

"I’m glad you didn’t say that you’ve always admired the work of Peter Keating."

"You didn’t tell me how glad you were to join the distinguished list of Gail

Wynand’s mistresses."

382

"You may enjoy my admitting it, if you wish, but I think we’ll get along very

well together."

"Quite likely. At least, you’ve given me a new experience: to do what I’ve

always done--but honestly. Shall I now begin to give you my orders? I won’t

pretend they’re anything else."

"If you wish."

"You’ll go with me for a two months’ cruise on my yacht. We’ll sail in ten days.

When we come back, you’ll be free to return to your husband--with the contract

for Stoneridge."

"Very well."

"I should like to meet your husband. Will you both have dinner with me Monday

night?"

"Yes, if you wish."

When she rose to leave, he asked:

"Shall I tell you the difference between you and your statue?"

"No."

"But I want to. It’s startling to see the same elements used in two compositions

with opposite themes. Everything about you in that statue is the theme of

exaltation. But your own theme is suffering."

"Suffering? I’m not conscious of having shown that."

"You haven’t. That’s what I meant. No happy person can be quite so impervious to

pain."

#

Wynand telephoned his art dealer and asked him to arrange a private showing of

Steven Mallory’s work. He refused to meet Mallory in person; he never met those

whose work he liked. The art dealer executed the order in great haste. Wynand

bought five of the pieces he saw--and paid more than the dealer had hoped to

ask. "Mr. Mallory would like to know," said the dealer, "what brought him to

your attention."

"I saw one of his works."

"Which one?"

"It doesn’t matter."

Toohey had expected Wynand to call for him after the interview with Dominique.

Wynand had not called. But a few days later, meeting Toohey by chance in the

city room, Wynand asked aloud:

"Mr. Toohey, have so many people tried to kill you that you can’t remember their

names?"

Toohey smiled and said: "I’m sure quite so many would like to."

383

"You flatter your fellow men," said Wynand, walking away.

#

Peter Keating stared at the brilliant room of the restaurant. It was the most

exclusive place in town, and the most expensive. Keating gloated, chewing the

thought that he was here as the guest of Gail Wynand.

He tried not to stare at the gracious elegance of Wynand’s figure across the

table. He blessed Wynand for having chosen to give this dinner in a public

place. People were gaping at Wynand--discreetly and with practiced camouflage,

but gaping nevertheless--and their attention included the two guests at Wynand’s

table.

Dominique sat between the two men. She wore a white silk dress with long sleeves

and a cowl neck, a nun’s garment that acquired the startling effect of an