He said nothing. She walked away from him, and sat down again, waiting.

He got up. He made a few steps toward her. He said: "Dominique ... " Then he was on his knees before her, clutching her, his head buried against her legs.

"Dominique, it's not true — that I never loved you. I love you, I always have, it was not ... just to show the others — that was not all — I loved you. There were two people — you and another person, a man, who always made me feel the same thing — not fear exactly, but like a wall, a steep wall to climb — like a command to rise — I don't know where — but a feeling going up — I've always hated that man — but you, I wanted you — always — that's why I married you — when I knew you despised me — so you should have forgiven me that marriage — you shouldn't have taken your revenge like this — not like this, Dominique — Dominique, I can't fight back, I — "

"Who is the man you hated, Peter?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Who is he?"

"Nobody. I ... "

"Name him."

"Howard Roark."

She said nothing for a long time. Then she put her hand on his hair. The gesture had the form of gentleness.

"I never wanted to take a revenge on you, Peter," she said softly.

"Then — why?"

"I married you for my own reasons. I acted as the world demands one should act. Only I can do nothing halfway. Those who can, have a fissure somewhere inside. Most people have many. They lie to themselves — not to know that. I've never lied to myself. So I had to do what you all do — only consistently and completely. I've probably destroyed you. If I could care, I'd say I'm sorry. That was not my purpose."

"Dominique, I love you. But I'm afraid. Because you've changed something in me, ever since our wedding, since I said yes to you — even if I were to lose you now, I couldn't go back to what I was before — you took something I had ... "

"No. I took something you never had. I grant you that's worse."

"What?"

"It's said that the worst thing one can do to a man is to kill his self-respect. But that's not true. Self-respect is something that can't be killed. The worst thing is to kill a man's pretense at it."

"Dominique, I ... I don't want to talk."

She looked down at his face resting against her knees, and he saw pity in her eyes, and for one moment he knew what a dreadful thing true pity is, but he kept no knowledge of it, because he slammed his mind shut before the words in which he was about to preserve it.

She bent down and kissed his forehead. It was the first kiss she had ever given him.

"I don't want you to suffer, Peter," she said gently. "This, now, is real — it's I — it's my own words — I don't want you to suffer — I can't feel anything else — but I feel that much."

He pressed his lips to her hand.

When he raised his head, she looked at him as if, for a moment, he was her husband. She said: "Peter, if you could hold on to it — to what you are now — "

"I love you," he said.

They sat silently together for a long time. He felt no strain in the silence.

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?"