“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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 evening gown only by being so flagrantly unsuited to that purpose. She wore no jewelry. Her gold hair looked like a hood. The dull white silk moved in angular planes with the movements of her body, revealing it in the manner of cold innocence, the body of a sacrificial object publicly offered, beyond the need of concealment or desire. Keating found it unattractive. He noticed that Wynand seemed to admire it.
Someone at a distant table stared in their direction insistently, someone tall and bulky. Then the big shape rose to its feet–and Keating recognized Ralston Holcombe hurrying toward them.
“Peter, my boy, so glad to see you,” boomed Holcombe, shaking his hand, bowing to Dominique, conspicuously ignoring Wynand. “Where have you been hiding? Why don’t we see you around any more?” They had had luncheon together three days ago.
Wynand had risen and stood leaning forward a little, courteously. Keating hesitated; then, with obvious reluctance, said:
“Mr. Wynand–Mr. Holcombe.”
“Not Mr. Gail Wynand?” said Holcombe with splendid innocence.
“Mr. Holcombe, if you saw one of the cough-drop Smith brothers in real life, would you recognize him?” asked Wynand.
“Why–I guess so,” said Holcombe, blinking.
“My face, Mr. Holcombe, is just as much of a public bromide.”
Holcombe muttered a few benevolent generalities and escaped.
Wynand smiled affectionately. “You didn’t have to be afraid of introducing Mr. Holcombe to me, Mr. Keating, even though he is an architect.”
“Afraid, Mr. Wynand?”
“Unnecessarily, since it’s all settled. Hasn’t Mrs. Keating told you that Stoneridge is yours?”
“I…no, she hasn’t told me…I didn’t know….” Wynand was smiling, but the smile remained fixed, and Keating felt compelled to go on talking until some sign stopped him. “I hadn’t quite hoped…not so soon…of course, I thought this dinner might be a sign…help you to decide…” He blurted out involuntarily: “Do you always throw surprises like that–just like that?”
“Whenever I can,” said Wynand gravely.
“I shall do my best to deserve this honor and live up to your expectations, Mr. Wynand.”
“I have no doubt about that,” said Wynand.