Returning to his office, Wynand stopped in the city room. Standing at a tall desk, a big blue pencil in his hand, he wrote on a huge sheet of plain print stock, in letters an inch high, a brilliant, ruthless editorial denouncing all advocates of careers for women. The GW at the end stood like a streak of blue flame. He did not read the piece over–he never needed to–but threw it on the desk of the first editor in sight and walked out of the room. Late in the afternoon, when Wynand was ready to leave his office, his secretary announced that Ellsworth Toohey requested the privilege of seeing him. “Let him in,” said Wynand.
Toohey entered, a cautious half-smile on his face, a smile mocking himself and his boss, but with a delicate sense of balance, sixty percent of the mockery directed at himself. He knew that Wynand did not want to see him, and being received was not in his favor.
Wynand sat behind his desk, his face courteously blank. Two diagonal ridges stood out faintly on his forehead, parallel with his slanting eyebrows. It was a disconcerting peculiarity which his face assumed at times; it gave the effect of a double exposure, an ominous emphasis.
“Sit down, Mr. Toohey. Of what service can I be to you?”
“Oh, I’m much more presumptuous than that, Mr. Wynand,” said Toohey gaily. “I didn’t come to ask for your services, but to offer you mine.”
“In what matter?”
“Stoneridge.”
The diagonal lines stood out sharper on Wynand’s forehead.
“Of what use can a newspaper columnist be to Stoneridge?”
“A newspaper columnist–none, Mr. Wynand. But an architectural expert…” Toohey let his voice trail into a mocking question mark.
If Toohey’s eyes had not been fixed insolently on Wynand’s, he would have been ordered out of the office at once. But the glance told Wynand that Toohey knew to what extent he had been plagued by people recommending architects and how hard he had tried to avoid them; and that Toohey had outwitted him by obtaining this interview for a purpose Wynand had not expected. The impertinence of it amused Wynand, as Toohey had known it would.
“All right, Mr. Toohey. Whom are you selling?”
“Peter Keating.”
“Well?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, sell him to me.”
Toohey was stopped, then shrugged brightly and plunged in:
“You understand, of course, that I’m not connected with Mr. Keating in any way. I’m acting only as his friend–and yours.” The voice sounded pleasantly informal, but it had lost some of its certainty. “Honestly, I know it does sound trite, but what else can I say? It just happens to be the truth.” Wynand would not help him out. “I presumed to come here because I felt it was my duty to give you my opinion. No, not a moral duty. Call it an esthetic one. I know that you demand the best in anything you do. For a project of the size you have in mind there’s not another architect living who can equal Peter Keating in efficiency, taste, originality, imagination. That, Mr. Wynand, is my sincere opinion.”
“I quite believe you.”
“You do?”
“Of course. But, Mr. Toohey, why should I consider your opinion?”
“Well, after all, I am your architectural expert!” He could not keep the edge of anger out of his voice.
“My dear, Mr. Toohey, don’t confuse me with my readers.” After a moment, Toohey leaned back and spread his hands out in laughing helplessness.
“Frankly, Mr. Wynand, I didn’t think my word would carry much weight with you. So I didn’t intend trying to sell you Peter Keating.”
“No? What did you intend?”
“Only to ask that you give half an hour of your time to someone who can convince you of Peter Keating’s ability much better than I can.”
“Who is that?”
“Mrs. Peter Keating.”
“Why should I wish to discuss this matter with Mrs. Peter Keating?”
“Because she is an exceedingly beautiful woman and an extremely difficult one.”
Wynand threw his head back and laughed aloud.
“Good God, Toohey, am I as obvious as that?”
Toohey, blinked, unprepared.
“Really, Mr. Toohey, I owe you an apology, if, by allowing my tastes to become so well known, I caused you to be so crude. But I had no idea that among your many other humanitarian activities you were also a pimp.”
Toohey rose to his feet.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Toohey. I have no desire whatever to meet Mrs. Peter Keating.”
“I didn’t think you would have, Mr. Wynand. Not on my unsupported suggestion. I foresaw that several hours ago. In fact, as early as this morning. So I took the liberty of preparing for myself another chance to discuss this with you. I took the liberty of sending you a present. When you get home tonight, you will find my gift there. Then, if you feel that I was justified in expecting you to do so, you can telephone me and I shall come over at once so that you will be able to tell me whether you wish to meet Mrs. Peter Keating or not.”
“Toohey, this is unbelievable, but I believe you’re offering me a bribe.”
“I am.”
“You know, that’s the sort of stunt you should be allowed to get away with completely–or lose your job for.”
“I shall rest upon your opinion of my present tonight.”
“All right, Mr. Toohey, I’ll look at your present.”
Toohey bowed and turned to go. He was at the door when Wynand added:
“You know, Toohey, one of these days you’ll bore me.”
“I shall endeavor not to do so until the right time,” said Toohey, bowed again and went out.
When Wynand returned to his home, he had forgotten all about Ellsworth Toohey.
That evening, in his penthouse, Wynand had dinner with a woman who had a white face, soft brown hair and, behind her, three centuries of fathers and brothers who would have killed a man for a hint of the things which Gail Wynand had experienced with her.
The line of her arm, when she raised a crystal goblet of water to her lips, was as perfect as the lines of the silver candelabra produced by a matchless talent–and Wynand observed it with the same appreciation. The candlelight flickering on the planes of her face made a sight of such beauty that he wished she were not alive, so that he could look, say nothing and think what he pleased.
“In a month or two, Gail,” she said, smiling lazily, “when it gets really cold and nasty, let’s take the I Do and sail somewhere straight into the sun, as we did last winter.”
I Do was the name of Wynand’s yacht. He had never explained that name to anyone. Many women had questioned him about it. This woman had questioned him before. Now, as he remained silent, she asked it again:
“By the way, darling, what does it mean–the name of that wonderful mudscow of yours?”
“It’s a question I don’t answer,” he said. “One of them.”
“Well, shall I get my wardrobe ready for the cruise?”
“Green is your best color. It looks well at sea. I love to watch what it does to your hair and your arms. I shall miss the sight of your naked arms against green silk. Because tonight is the last time.”
Her fingers lay still on the stem of the glass. Nothing had given her a hint that tonight was to be the last time. But she knew that these words were all he needed to end it. All of Wynand’s women had known that they were to expect an end like this and that it was not to be discussed. After a while, she asked, her voice low:
“What reason, Gail?”
“The obvious one.”
He reached into his pocket and took out a diamond bracelet; it flashed a cold, brilliant fire in the candlelight: its heavy links hung limply in his fingers. It had no case, no wrapper. He tossed it across the table.
“A memorial, my dear,” he said. “Much more valuable than that which it commemorates.”
The bracelet hit the goblet and made it ring, a thin, sharp cry, as if the glass had screamed for the woman. The woman made no sound. He knew that it was horrible, because she was the kind to whom one did not offer such gifts at such moments, just as all those other women had been; and because she would not refuse, as all the others had not refused.
“Thank you, Gail,” she said, clasping the bracelet about her wrist, not looking at him across the candles.
Later, when they had walked into the drawing room, she stopped and the glance between her long eyelashes moved toward the darkness where the stairway to his bedroom began. “To let me earn the memorial, Gail?” she asked, her voice flat.
He shook his head.
“I had really intended that,” he said. “But I’m tired.”