"Ellsworth!" she screamed. "Get out of here!"

She had shot to her feet. She stood straight for a moment, then she slumped forward, her two palms flat on the desk, and she stood, bent over; he saw her smooth mass of hair swinging heavily, then hanging still, hiding her face.

"But, Dominique," he said pleasantly, "I was only telling you why Peter Keating is such an interesting person."

Her hair flew back like a mop, and her face followed, she dropped down on her chair, looking at him, her mouth loose and very ugly.

"Dominique," he said softly, "you're obvious. Much too obvious."

"Get out of here."

"Well, I've always said that you underestimated me. Call on me next time you need some help."

At the door, he turned to add:

"Of course, personally, I think Peter Keating is the greatest architect we've got."

That evening, when she came home, the telephone rang.

"Dominique, my dear," a voice gulped anxiously over the wire, "did you really mean all that?"

"Who is this?"

"Joel Sutton. I ... "

"Hello, Joel. Did I mean what?"

"Hello, dear, how are you? How is your charming father? I mean, did you mean all that about the Enright House and that fellow Roark? I mean, what you said in your column today. I'm quite a bit upset, quite a bit. You know about my building? Well, we're all ready to go ahead and it's such a bit of money, I thought I was very careful about deciding, but I trust you of all people, I've always trusted you, you're a smart kid, plenty smart, if you work for a fellow like Wynand I guess you know your stuff. Wynand knows buildings, why, that man's made more in real estate than on all his papers, you bet he did, it's not supposed to be known, but I know it. And you working for him, and now I don't know what to think. Because, you see, I had decided, yes, I had absolutely and definitely decided — almost — to have this fellow Roark, in fact I told him so, in fact he's coming over tomorrow afternoon to sign the contract, and now ... Do you really think it will look like a feather boa?"

"Listen, Joel," she said, her teeth set tight together, "can you have lunch with me tomorrow?"

She met Joel Sutton in the vast, deserted dining room of a distinguished hotel. There were few, solitary guests among the white tables, so that each stood out, the empty tables serving as an elegant setting that proclaimed the guest's exclusiveness. Joel Sutton smiled broadly. He had never escorted a woman as decorative as Dominique.

"You know, Joel," she said, facing him across a table, her voice quiet, set, unsmiling, "it was a brilliant idea, your choosing Roark."

"Oh, do you think so?"

"I think so. You'll have a building that will be beautiful, like an anthem. A building that will take your breath away — also your tenants. A hundred years from now they will write about you in history — and search for your grave in Potter's Field."

"Good heavens, Dominique, what are you talking about?"

"About your building. About the kind of building that Roark will design for you. It will be a great building, Joel."

"You mean, good?"

"I don't mean good. I mean great."

"It's not the same thing."

"No, Joel, no, it's not the same thing."

"I don't like this 'great' stuff."

"No. You don't. I didn't think you would. Then what do you want with Roark? You want a building that won't shock anybody. A building that will be folksy and comfortable and safe, like the old parlor back home that smells of clam chowder. A building that everybody will like, everybody and anybody. It's very uncomfortable to be a hero, Joel, and you don't have the figure for it."

"Well, of course I want a building that people will like. What do you think I'm putting it up for, for my health?"

"No, Joel. Nor for your soul."

"You mean, Roark's no good?"

She sat straight and stiff, as if all her muscles were drawn tight against pain. But her eyes were heavy, half closed, as if a hand were caressing her body. She said:

"Do you see many buildings that he's done? Do you see many people hiring him? There are six million people in the city of New York. Six million people can't be wrong. Can they?"

"Of course not."

"Of course."

"But I thought Enright ... "

"You're not Enright, Joel. For one thing, he doesn't smile so much. Then, you see, Enright wouldn't have asked my opinion. You did. That's what I like you for."

"Do you really like me, Dominique?"

"Didn't you know that you've always been one of my great favorites?"

"I ... I've always trusted you. I'll take your word anytime. What do you really think I should do?"

"It's simple. You want the best that money can buy — of what money can buy. You want a building that will be — what it deserves to be. You want an architect whom other people have employed, so that you can show them that you're just as good as they are."

"That's right. That's exactly right ... Look, Dominique, you've hardly touched your food."

"I'm not hungry."

"Well, what architect would you recommend?"

"Think, Joel. Who is there, at the moment, that everybody's talking about? Who gets the pick of all commissions? Who makes the most money for himself and his clients? Who's young and famous and safe and popular?"

"Why, I guess ... I guess Peter Keating."

"Yes, Joel. Peter Keating."

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Roark, so terribly sorry, believe me, but after all, I'm not in business for my health ... not for my health nor for my soul ... that is, I mean, well, I'm sure you can understand my position. And it's not that I have anything against you, quite the contrary, I think you're a great architect. You see that's just the trouble, greatness is fine but it's not practical. That's the trouble, Mr. Roark, not practical, and after all you must admit that Mr. Keating has much the better name and he's got that ... that popular touch which you haven't been able to achieve."

It disturbed Mr. Sutton that Roark did not protest. He wished Roark would try to argue; then he could bring forth the unanswerable justifications which Dominique had taught him a few hours ago. But Roark said nothing; he had merely inclined his head when he heard the decision. Mr. Sutton wanted desperately to utter the justifications, but it seemed pointless to try to convince a man who seemed convinced. Still, Mr. Sutton loved people and did not want to hurt anyone.

"As a matter of fact, Mr. Roark, I'm not alone in this decision. As a matter of fact, I did want you, I had decided on you, honestly I had, but it was Miss Dominique Francon, whose judgment I value most highly, who convinced me that you were not the right choice for this commission — and she was fair enough to allow me to tell you that she did."

He saw Roark looking at him suddenly. Then he saw the hollows of Roark's cheeks twisted, as if drawn in deeper, and his mouth open: he was laughing, without sound but for one sharp intake of breath.

"What on earth are you laughing at, Mr. Roark?"

"So Miss Francon wanted you to tell me this?"

"She didn't want me to, why should she? — she merely said that I could tell you if I wished."

"Yes, of course."

"Which only shows her honesty and that she had good reasons for her convictions and will stand by them openly."

"Yes."

"Well, what's the matter?"

"Nothing, Mr. Sutton."

"Look, it's not decent to laugh like that."

"No."

His room was half dark around him. A sketch of the Heller house was tacked, unframed, on a long, blank wall; it made the room seem emptier and the wall longer. He did not feel the minutes passing, but he felt time as a solid thing enclosed and kept apart within the room; time clear of all meaning save the unmoving reality of his body.