She sat looking at the fire. It gave a deceptive semblance of life to her face. After a while he asked: "How do you like all the new things I got?"

"I like them. I like your having them."

"I didn't tell you what happened to me since I saw you last. The completely incredible. Gail Wynand ... "

"Yes, I know about that."

"You do? Wynand, of all people — what on earth made him discover me?"

"I know that too. I'll tell you when I come back."

"He has an amazing judgment. Amazing for him. He bought the best."

"Yes, he would."

Then she asked, without transition, yet he knew that she was not speaking of Wynand:

"Steve, has he ever asked you about me?"

"No."

"Have you told him about my coming here?"

"No."

"Is that — for my sake, Steve?"

"No. For his."

He knew he had told her everything she wanted to know.

She said, rising:

"Let's have some tea. Show me where you keep your stuff. I'll fix it."

Dominique left for Reno early in the morning. Keating was still asleep and she did not awaken him to say good-bye.

When he opened his eyes, he knew that she was gone, before he looked at the clock, by the quality of the silence in the house. He thought he should say "Good riddance," but he did not say it and he did not feel it. What he felt was a vast, flat sentence without subject — "It's no use" — related neither to himself nor to Dominique. He was alone and there was no necessity to pretend anything. He lay in bed, on his back, his arms flung out helplessly. His face looked humble and his eyes bewildered. He felt that it was an end and a death, but he did not mean the loss of Dominique.

He got up and dressed. In the bathroom he found a hand towel she had used and discarded. He picked it up, he pressed his face to it and held it for a long time, not in sorrow, but in nameless emotion, not understanding, knowing only that he had loved her twice — on that evening when Toohey telephoned, and now. Then he opened his fingers and let the towel slip down to the floor, like a liquid running between his fingers.

He went to his office and worked as usual. Nobody knew of his divorce and he felt no desire to inform anyone. Neil Dumont winked at him and drawled: "I say, Pete, you look peaked." He shrugged and turned his back. The sight of Dumont made him sick today.

He left the office early. A vague instinct kept pulling at him, like hunger, at first, then taking shape. He had to see Ellsworth Toohey. He had to reach Toohey. He felt like the survivor of a shipwreck swimming toward a distant light.

That evening he dragged himself to Ellsworth Toohey's apartment. When he entered, he felt dimly glad of his self-control, because Toohey seemed to notice nothing in his face.

"Oh, hello, Peter," said Toohey airily. "Your sense of timing leaves much to be desired. You catch me on the worst possible evening. Busy as all hell. But don't let that bother you. What are friends for but to inconvenience one? Sit down, sit down, I'll be with you in a minute."

"I'm sorry, Ellsworth. But ... I had to."

"Make yourself at home. Just ignore me for a minute, will you?"

Keating sat down and waited. Toohey worked, making notes on sheets of typewritten copy. He sharpened a pencil, the sound grating like a saw across Keating's nerves. He bent over his copy again, rustling the pages once in a while.

Half an hour later he pushed the papers aside and smiled at Keating. "That's that," he said. Keating made a small movement forward. "Sit tight," said Toohey, "just one telephone call I've got to make."

He dialed the number of Gus Webb. "Hello, Gus," he said gaily. "How are you, you walking advertisement for contraceptives?" Keating had never heard that tone of loose intimacy from Toohey, a special tone of brotherhood that permitted sloppiness. He heard Webb's piercing voice say something and laugh in the receiver. The receiver went on spitting out rapid sounds from deep down in its tube, like a throat being cleared. The words could not be recognized, only their quality; the quality of abandon and insolence, with high shrieks of mirth once in a while.

Toohey leaned back in his chair, listening, half smiling. "Yes," he said occasionally, "uh-huh ... You said it, boy ... Surer'n hell ... " He leaned back farther and put one foot in a shining, pointed shoe on the edge of the desk. "Listen, boy, what I wanted to tell you is go easy on old Bassett for a while. Sure he likes your work, but don't shock hell out of him for the time being. No roughhouse, see? Keep that big facial cavity of yours buttoned up ... You know damn well who I am to tell you ... That's right ... That's the stuff, kid ... Oh, he did? Good, angel-face ... Well, bye-bye — oh, say, Gus, have you heard the one about the British lady and the plumber?" There followed a story. The receiver yelled raucously at the end. "Well, watch your step and your digestion, angel-face. Nighty-night."

Toohey dropped the receiver, said: "Now, Peter," stretched, got up, walking to Keating and stood before him, rocking a little on his small feet, his eyes bright and kindly.

"Now, Peter, what's the matter? Has the world crashed about your nose?"

Keating reached into his inside pocket and produced a yellow check, crumpled, much handled. It bore his signature and the sum of ten thousand dollars, made out to Ellsworth M. Toohey. The gesture with which he handed it to Toohey was not that of a donor, but of a beggar.

"Please, Ellsworth ... here ... take this ... for a good cause ... for the Workshop of Social Study ... or for anything you wish ... you know best ... for a good cause ... "

Toohey held the check with the tips of his fingers, like a soiled penny, bent his head to one side, pursing his lips in appreciation, and tossed the check on his desk.

"Very handsome of you, Peter. Very handsome indeed. What's the occasion?"

"Ellsworth, you remember what you said once — that it doesn't matter what we are or do, if we help others? That's all that counts? That's good, isn't it? That's clean?"

"I haven't said it once. I've said it a million times."

"And it's really true?"

"Of course it's true. If you have the courage to accept it."

"You're my friend, aren't you? You're the only friend I've got. I ... I'm not even friendly with myself, but you are. With me, I mean, aren't you, Ellsworth?"

"But of course. Which is of more value than your own friendship with yourself — a rather queer conception, but quite valid."

"You understand. Nobody else does. And you like me."

"Devotedly. Whenever I have the time."

"Ah?"

"Your sense of humor, Peter, where's your sense of humor? What's the matter? A bellyache? Or a soul-indigestion?"

"Ellsworth, I ... "

"Yes?"

"I can't tell you. Even you."

"You're a coward, Peter."

Keating stared helplessly: the voice had been severe and gentle, he did not know whether he should feel pain, insult or confidence.

"You come here to tell me that it doesn't matter what you do — and then you go to pieces over something or other you've done. Come on, be a man and say it doesn't matter. Say you're not important. Mean it. Show some guts. Forget your little ego."

"I'm not important, Ellsworth. I'm not important. Oh God, if only everybody'd say it like you do! I'm not important. I don't want to be important."

"Where did that money come from?"

"I sold Dominique."

"What are you talking about? The cruise?"

"Only it seems as if it's not Dominique that I sold."

"What do you care if ... "

"She's gone to Reno."

"What?"

He could not understand the violence of Toohey's reaction, but he was too tired to wonder. He told everything, as it had happened to him; it had not taken long to happen or to tell.