He pulled a sketch from under the drawings on the table and handed it to Roark.

It was Roark's building on the sketch, very neatly drawn. It was his building, but it had a simplified Doric portico in front, a cornice on top, and his ornament was replaced by a stylized Greek ornament.

Roark got up. He had to stand. He concentrated on the effort of standing. It made the rest easier. He leaned on one straight arm, his hand closed over the edge of the table, the tendons showing under the skin of his wrist.

"You see the point?" said the chairman soothingly. "Our conservatives simply refused to accept a queer stark building like yours. And they claim that the public won't accept it either. So we hit upon the middle course. In this way, though it's not traditional architecture of course, it will give the public the impression of what they're accustomed to. It adds a certain air of sound, stable dignity — and that's what we want in a bank, isn't it? It does seem to be an unwritten law that a bank must have a Classic portico — and a bank is not exactly the right institution to parade law-breaking and rebellion. Undermines that intangible feeling of confidence, you know. People don't trust novelty. But this is the scheme that pleased everybody. Personally, I wouldn't insist on it, but I really don't see that it spoils anything. And that's what the board has decided. Of course, we don't mean that we want you to follow this sketch. But it gives you our general idea and you'll work it out yourself, make your own adaptation of the Classic motive to the facade."

Then Roark answered. The men could not classify the tone of his voice; they could not decide whether it was too great a calm or too great an emotion. They concluded that it was calm, because the voice moved forward evenly, without stress, without color, each syllable spaced as by a machine; only the air in the room was not the air that vibrates to a calm voice.

They concluded that there was nothing abnormal in the manner of the man who was speaking, except the fact that his right hand would not leave the edge of the table, and when he had to move the drawings, he did it with his left hand, like a man with one arm paralyzed.

He spoke for a long time. He explained why this structure could not have a Classic motive on its facade. He explained why an honest building, like an honest man, had to be of one piece and one faith; what constituted the life source, the idea in any existing thing or creature, and why — if one smallest part committed treason to that idea — the thing of the creature was dead; and why the good, the high and the noble on earth was only that which kept its integrity.

The chairman interrupted him:

"Mr. Roark, I agree with you. There's no answer to what you're saying. But unfortunately, in practical life, one can't always be so flawlessly consistent. There's always the incalculable human element of emotion. We can't fight that with cold logic. This discussion is actually superfluous. I can agree with you, but I can't help you. The matter is closed. It was the board's final decision — after more than usually prolonged consideration, as you know."

"Will you let me appear before the board and speak to them?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Roark, but the board will not re-open the question for further debate. It was final. I can only ask you to state whether you agree to accept the commission on our terms or not. I must admit that the board has considered the possibility of your refusal. In which case, the name of another architect, one Gordon L. Prescott, has been mentioned most favorably as an alternative. But I told the board that I felt certain you would accept."

He waited. Roark said nothing.

"You understand the situation, Mr. Roark?"

"Yes," said Roark. His eyes were lowered. He was looking down at the drawings.

"Well?"

Roark did not answer.

"Yes or no, Mr. Roark?"

Roark's head leaned back. He closed his eyes.

"No," said Roark.

After a while the chairman asked:

"Do you realize what you're doing?"

"Quite," said Roark.

"Good God!" Weidler cried suddenly. "Don't you know how big a commission this is? You're a young man, you won't get another chance like this. And ... all right, damn it, I'll say it! You need this! I know how badly you need it!"

Roark gathered the drawings from the table, rolled them together and put them under his arm.

"It's sheer insanity!" Weidler moaned. "I want you. We want your building. You need the commission. Do you have to be quite so fanatical and selfless about it?"

"What?" Roark asked incredulously.

"Fanatical and selfless."

Roark smiled. He looked down at his drawings. His elbow moved a little, pressing them to his body. He said:

"That was the most selfish thing you've ever seen a man do."

He walked back to his office. He gathered his drawing instruments and the few things he had there. It made one package and he carried it under his arm. He locked the door and gave the key to the rental agent. He told the agent that he was closing his office. He walked home and left the package there. Then he went to Mike Donnigan's house.

"No?" Mike asked, after one look at him.

"No," said Roark.

"What happened?"

"I'll tell you some other time."

"The bastards!"

"Never mind that, Mike."

"How about the office now?"

"I've closed the office."

"For good?"

"For the time being."

"God damn them all, Red! God damn them!"

"Shut up. I need a job, Mike. Can you help me?"

"Me?"

"I don't know anyone in those trades here. Not anyone that would want me. You know them all."

"In what trades? What are you talking about?"

"In the building trades. Structural work. As I've done before."

"You mean — a plain workman's job?"

"I mean a plain workman's job."

"You're crazy, you God-damn fool!"

"Cut it, Mike. Will you get me a job?"

"But why in hell? You can get a decent job in an architect's office. You know you can."

"I won't, Mike. Not ever again."

"Why?"

"I don't want to touch it. I don't want to see it. I don't want to help them do what they're doing."

"You can get a nice clean job in some other line."

"I would have to think on a nice clean job. I don't want to think. Not their way. It will have to be their way, no matter where I go. I want a job where I won't have to think."

"Architects don't take workmen's jobs."

"That's all this architect can do."

"You can learn something in no time."

"I don't want to learn anything."

"You mean you want me to get you into a construction gang, here, in town?"

"That's what I mean."

"No, God damn you! I can't! I won't! I won't do it!"

"Why?"

"Red, to be putting yourself up like a show for all the bastards in this town to see? For all the sons of bitches to know they brought you down like this? For all of them to gloat?"

Roark laughed.

"I don't give a damn about that, Mike. Why should you?"

"Well, I'm not letting you. I'm not giving the sons of bitches that kinda treat."

"Mike," Roark said softly, "there's nothing else for me to do."

"Hell, yes, there is. I told you before. You'll be listening to reason now. I got all the dough you need until ... "

"I'll tell you what I've told Austen Heller: If you ever offer me money again, that'll be the end between us."

"But why?"

"Don't argue, Mike."

"But ... "

"I'm asking you to do me a bigger favor. I want that job. You don't have to feel sorry for me. I don't."

"But ... but what'll happen to you, Red?"

"Where?"

"I mean ... your future?"

"I'll save enough money and I'll come back. Or maybe someone will send for me before then."

Mike looked at him. He saw something in Roark's eyes which he knew Roark did not want to be there.