The naked marble body, its head thrown back in exaltation, made the room look like a place that did not exist any longer: like the Stoddard Temple. Wynand's eyes rested on Toohey expectantly, a heavy glance of suppressed anger.

"You want, of course, to know the name of the model?" Toohey asked, with just a hint of triumph in his voice.

"Hell, no," said Wynand. "I want to know the name of the sculptor."

He wondered why Toohey did not like the question; there was something more than disappointment in Toohey's face.

"The sculptor?" said Toohey. "Wait ... let me see ... I think I did know it ... It's Steven ... or Stanley ... Stanley something or other ... Honestly, I don't remember."

"If you knew enough to buy this, you knew enough to ask the name and never forget it."

"I'll look it up, Mr. Wynand."

"Where did you get this?"

"In some art shop, you know, one of those places on Second Avenue."

"How did it get there?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask. I bought it because I knew the model."

"You're lying about that. If that were all you saw in it, you wouldn't have taken the chance you took. You know that I've never let anyone see my gallery. Did you think I'd allow you the presumption of contributing to it? Nobody has ever dared offer me a gift of that kind. You wouldn't have risked it, unless you were sure, terribly sure, of how great a work of art this is. Sure that I'd have to accept it. That you'd beat me. And you have."

"I'm glad to hear it, Mr. Wynand."

"If you wish to enjoy that, I'll tell you also that I hate seeing this come from you. I hate your having been able to appreciate it. It doesn't fit you. Though I was obviously wrong about you: you're a greater art expert than I thought you were."

"Such as it is, I'll have to accept this as a compliment and thank you, Mr. Wynand."

"Now what was it you wanted? You intended me to understand that you won't let me have this unless I grant an interview to Mrs. Peter Keating?"

"Why, no, Mr. Wynand. I've made you a present of it. I intended you only to understand that this is Mrs. Peter Keating."

Wynand looked at the statue, then back at Toohey.

"Oh you damn fool!" said Wynand softly.

Toohey stared at him, bewildered.

"So you really did use this as a red lamp in a window?" Wynand seemed relieved; he did not find it necessary to hold Toohey's glance now. "That's better, Toohey. You're not as smart as I thought for a moment."

"But, Mr. Wynand, what ... ?"

"Didn't you realize that this statue would be the surest way to kill any possible appetite I might have for your Mrs. Keating?"

"You haven't seen her, Mr. Wynand."

"Oh, she's probably beautiful. She might be more beautiful than this. But she can't have what that sculptor has given her. And to see that same face, but without any meaning, like a dead caricature — don't you think one would hate the woman for that?"

"You haven't seen her."

"Oh, all right, I'll see her. I told you you should be allowed to get away with your stunt completely or not at all. I didn't promise you to lay her, did I? Only to see her."

"That is all I wanted, Mr. Wynand."

"Have her telephone my office and make an appointment."

"Thank you, Mr. Wynand."

"Besides, you're lying about not knowing the name of that sculptor. But it's too much bother to make you tell me. She'll tell me."

"I'm sure she'll tell you. Though why should I lie?"

"God knows. By the way, if it had been a lesser sculptor, you'd have lost your job over this."

"But, after all, Mr. Wynand, I have a contract."

"Oh, save that for your labor unions, Elsie! And now I think you should wish me a good night and get out of here."

"Yes, Mr. Wynand. I wish you a good night."

Wynand accompanied him to the hall. At the door Wynand said:

"You're a poor businessman, Toohey. I don't know why you're so anxious to have me meet Mrs. Keating. I don't know what your racket is in trying to get a commission for that Keating of yours. But whatever it is, it can't be so valuable that you should have been willing to part with a thing like this in exchange."

"WHY didn't you wear your emerald bracelet?" asked Peter Keating. "Gordon Prescott's so-called fiancee had everybody gaping at her star sapphire."

"I'm sorry, Peter. I shall wear it next time," said Dominique.

"It was a nice party. Did you have a good time?"

"I always have a good time."

"So did I ... Only ... Oh God, do you want to know the truth?"

"No."

"Dominique, I was bored to death. Vincent Knowlton is a pain in the neck. He's such a damn snob. I can't stand him." He added cautiously: "I didn't show it, did I?"

"No. You behaved very well. You laughed at all his jokes — even when no one else did."

"Oh, you noticed that? It always works."

"Yes, I noticed that."

"You think I shouldn't, don't you?"

"I haven't said that."

"You think it's ... low, don't you?"

"I don't think anything is low."

He slumped farther in his armchair; it made his chin press uncomfortably against his chest; but he did not care to move again. A fire crackled in the fireplace of his living room. He had turned out all the lights, save one lamp with a yellow silk shade; but it created no air of intimate relaxation, it only made the place look deserted, like a vacant apartment with the utilities shut off. Dominique sat at the other end of the room, her thin body fitted obediently to the contours of a straight-backed chair; she did not look stiff, only too poised for comfort. They were alone, but she sat like a lady at a public function; like a lovely dress dummy in a public show window — a window facing a busy intersection. They had come home from a tea party at the house of Vincent Knowlton, a prominent young society man, Keating's new friend. They had had a quiet dinner together, and now their evening was free. There were no other social engagements till tomorrow.

"You shouldn't have laughed at theosophy when you spoke to Mrs. Marsh," he said. "She believes in it."

"I'm sorry. I shall be more careful."

He waited to have her open a subject of conversation. She said nothing. He thought suddenly that she had never spoken to him first — in the twenty months of their marriage. He told himself that that was ridiculous and impossible; he tried to recall an occasion when she had addressed him. Of course she had; he remembered her asking him: '"What time will you get back tonight?" and "Do you wish to include the Dixons for Tuesday's dinner?" and many things like that.

He glanced at her. She did not look bored or anxious to ignore him. She sat there, alert and ready, as if his company held her full interest; she did not reach for a book, she did not stare at some distant thought of her own. She looked straight at him, not past him, as if she were waiting for a conversation. He realized that she had always looked straight at him, like this; and now he wondered whether he liked it. Yes, he did, it allowed him no cause to be jealous, not even of her hidden thoughts. No, he didn't, not quite, it allowed no escape, for either one of them.

"I've just finished The Gallant Gallstone," he said. "It's a swell book. It's the product of a scintillating brain, a Puck with tears streaming down his face, a golden-hearted clown holding for a moment the throne of God."

"I read the same book review. In the Sunday Banner."

"I read the book itself. You know I did."

"That was nice of you."

"Huh?" He heard approval and it pleased him.

"It was considerate toward the author. I'm sure she likes to have people read her book. So it was kind to take the time — when you knew in advance what you'd think of it."

"I didn't know. But I happened to agree with the reviewer."