The telephone rang.
It was not the sound that destroyed the moment; it was the eagerness with which 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 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?”
“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, 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?”
“I think I’m only a side issue again. Didn’t you call it ‘gravy’ once? What have you got against Wynand?”