Standing between them, Heller thought that he had been mistaken; there was nothing strange in this meeting; in fact, there simply was nothing. He felt annoyed that Dominique did not speak of architecture, as one would have expected her to do; he concluded regretfully that she disliked this man, as she disliked most people she met.
Then Mrs. Gillespie caught hold of Heller and led him away. Roark and Dominique were left alone. Roark said:
“Mr. Enright reads every paper in town. They are all brought to his office–with the editorial pages cut out.”
“He’s always done that. Roger missed his real vocation. He should have been a scientist. He has such a love for facts and such contempt for commentaries.”
“On the other hand, do you know Mr. Fleming?” he asked.
“No.”
“He’s a friend of Heller’s. Mr. Fleming never reads anything but editorial pages. People like to hear him talk.”
She watched him. He was looking straight at her, very politely, as any man would have looked, meeting her for the first time. She wished she could find some hint in his face, if only a hint of his old derisive smile; even mockery would be an acknowledgment and a tie; she found nothing. He spoke as a stranger. He allowed no reality but that of a man introduced to her in a drawing room, flawlessly obedient to every convention of deference. She faced this respectful formality, thinking that her dress had nothing to hide from him, that he had used her for a need more intimate than the use of the food he ate–while he stood now at a distance of a few feet from her, like a man who could not possibly permit himself to come closer. She thought that this was his form of mockery, after what he had not forgotten and would not acknowledge. She thought that he wanted her to be first to name it, he would bring her to the humiliation of accepting the past–by being first to utter the word recalling it to reality; because he knew that she could not leave it unrecalled.
“And what does Mr. Fleming do for a living?” she asked.
“He’s a manufacturer of pencil sharpeners.”
“Really? A friend of Austen’s?”
“Austen knows many people. He says that’s his business.”
“Is he successful?”
“Who, Miss Francon? I’m not sure about Austen, but Mr. Fleming is very successful. He has branch factories in New Jersey, Connecticut and Rhode Island.”
“You’re wrong about Austen, Mr. Roark. He’s very successful. In his profession and mine you’re successful if it leaves you untouched.”
“How does one achieve that?”
“In one of two ways: by not looking at people at all or by looking at everything about them.”
“Which is preferable, Miss Francon?”
“Whichever is hardest.”
“But a desire to choose the hardest might be a confession of weakness in itself.”
“Of course, Mr. Roark. But it’s the least offensive form of confession.”
“If the weakness is there to be confessed at all.”
Then someone came flying through the crowd, and an arm fell about Roark’s shoulders. It was John Erik Snyte.
“Roark, well of all people to see here!” he cried. “So glad, so glad! Ages, hasn’t it been? Listen, I want to talk to you! Let me have him for a moment, Dominique.”
Roark bowed to her, his arms at his sides, a strand of hair falling forward, so that she did not see his face, but only the orange head bowed courteously for a moment, and he followed Snyte into the crowd.
Snyte was saying: “God, how you’ve come up these last few years! Listen, do you know whether Enright’s planning to go into real estate in a big way, I mean, any other buildings up his sleeve?”
It was Heller who forced Snyte away and brought Roark to Joel Sutton. Joel Sutton was delighted. He felt that Roark’s presence here removed the last of his doubts; it was a stamp of safety on Roark’s person. Joel Sutton’s hand closed about Roark’s elbow, five pink, stubby fingers on the black sleeve. Joel Sutton gulped confidentially:
“Listen, kid, it’s all settled. You’re it. Now don’t squeeze the last pennies out of me, all you architects are cutthroats and highway robbers, but I’ll take a chance on you, you’re a smart boy, snared old Rog, didn’t you? So here you’ve got me swindled too, just about almost, that is, I’ll give you a ring in a few days and we’ll have a dogfight over the contract!”
Heller looked at them and thought that it was almost indecent to see them together: Roark’s tall, ascetic figure, with that proud cleanliness peculiar to long-lined bodies, and beside him the smiling ball of meat whose decision could mean so much.
Then Roark began to speak about the future building, but Joel Sutton looked up at him, astonished and hurt. Joel Sutton had not come here to talk about buildings; parties were given for the purpose of enjoying oneself, and what greater joy could there be but to forget the important things of one’s life? So Joel Sutton talked about badminton; that was his hobby; it was a patrician hobby, he explained, he was not being common like other men who wasted time on golf. Roark listened politely. He had nothing to say.
“You do play badminton, don’t you?” Joel Sutton asked suddenly.
“No,” said Roark.
“You don’t?” gulped Joel Sutton. “You don’t? Well, what a pity, oh what a rotten pity! I thought sure you did, with that lanky frame of yours you’d be good, you’d be a wow, I thought sure we’d beat the pants off of old Tompkins anytime while that building’s being put up.”
“While that building’s being put up, Mr. Sutton, I wouldn’t have the time to play anyway.”
“What d’you mean, wouldn’t have the time? What’ve you got draftsmen for? Hire a couple extra, let them worry, I’ll be paying you enough, won’t I? But then, you don’t play, what a rotten shame, I thought sure…The architect who did my building down on Canal Street was a whiz at badminton, but he died last year, got himself cracked up in an auto accident, damn him, was a fine architect, too. And here you don’t play.”
“Mr. Sutton, you’re not really upset about it, are you?”
“I’m very seriously disappointed, my boy.”
“But what are you actually hiring me for?”
“What am I what?”
“Hiring me for?”
“Why, to do a building of course.”
“Do you really think it would be a better building if I played badminton?”
“Well, there’s business and there’s fun, there’s the practical and there’s the human end of it, oh, I don’t mind, still I thought with a skinny frame like yours you’d surely…but all right, all right, we can’t have everything….”
When Joel Sutton left him, Roark heard a bright voice saying: “Congratulations, Howard,” and turned to find Peter Keating smiling at him radiantly and derisively.
“Hello, Peter. What did you say?”
“I said, congratulations on landing Joel Sutton. Only, you know, you didn’t handle that very well.”
“What?”
“Old Joel. Oh, of course, I heard most of it–why shouldn’t I?–it was very entertaining. That’s no way to go about it, Howard. You know what I would have done? I’d have sworn I’d played badminton since I was two years old and how it’s the game of kings and earls and it takes a soul of rare distinction to appreciate it and by the time he’d put me to the test I’d have made it my business to play like an earl, too. What would it cost you?”
“I didn’t think of it.”
“It’s a secret, Howard. A rare one. I’ll give it to you free of charge with my compliments: always be what people want you to be. Then you’ve got them where you want them. I’m giving it free because you’ll never make use of it. You’ll never know how. You’re brilliant in some respects, Howard, I’ve always said that–and terribly stupid in others.”
“Possibly.”
“You ought to try and learn a few things, if you’re going in for playing the game through the Kiki Holcombe salon. Are you? Growing up, Howard? Though it did give me a shock to see you here of all places. Oh, and yes, congratulations on the Enright job, beautiful job as usual–where have you been all summer?–remind me to give you a lesson on how to wear a tux, God, but it looks silly on you! That’s what I like, I like to see you looking silly, we’re old friends, aren’t we, Howard?”
“You’re drunk, Peter.”
“Of course I am. But I haven’t touched a drop tonight, not a drop. What I’m drunk on–you’ll never learn, never, it’s not for you, and that’s also part of what I’m drunk on, that it’s not for you. You know, Howard, I love you. I really do. I do–tonight.”
“Yes, Peter. You always will, you know.”
Roark was introduced to many people and many people spoke to him. They smiled and seemed sincere in their efforts to approach him as a friend, to express appreciation, to display good will and cordial interest. But what he heard was: “The Enright House is magnificent. It’s almost as good as the Cosmo-Slotnick Building.”