"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, Peter."

"Dominique can take care of herself in any circ.u.mstances."

"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?"

"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 p.r.o.nounced."

"Howard Roark," she said evenly.

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

Keating returned, carrying a tray of c.o.c.ktails. His eyes were feverish and he made too many gestures.

Toohey raised his gla.s.s. He said: "To Gail Wynand and the New York Banner!" Banner!"

III

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 G.o.d."

"What sculptor?"

"The one who did that statue of you."

He had felt that there was some story behind that 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?"

"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."

"We should get together on our mutual friend, Mr. Ellsworth Toohey. I don't like being a p.a.w.n 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 That name." 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 circ.u.mstances, 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."