She had not seen Keating for six months. In the last three years, they had met occasionally, at long intervals, they had had a few luncheons together, a few dinners, they had gone to the movies twice. They had always met in a public place. Since the beginning of his acquaintance with Toohey, Keating would not come to see her at her home. When they met, they talked as if nothing had changed. But they had not spoken of marriage for a long time. "Hello, Katie," said Keating softly. "I didn't know you wore glasses now."
"It's just ... it's only for reading ... I ... Hello, Peter ... I guess I look terrible tonight ... I'm glad to see you, Peter ... "
He sat down heavily, his hat in his hand, his overcoat on. She stood smiling helplessly. Then she made a vague, circular motion with her hands and asked:
"Is it just for a little while or ... or do you want to take your coat off?"
"No, it's not just for a little while." He got up, threw his coat and hat on the bed, then he smiled for the first time and asked: "Or are you busy and want to throw me out?"
She pressed the heels of her hands against her eye sockets, and dropped her hands again quickly; she had to meet him as she had always met him, she had to sound light and normaclass="underline" "No, no, Fin not busy at all."
He sat down and stretched out his arm in silent invitation. She came to him promptly, she put her hand in his, and he pulled her down to the arm of his chair.
The lamplight fell on him, and she had recovered enough to notice the appearance of his face.
"Peter," she gasped, "what have you been doing to yourself? You look awful."
"Drinking."
"Not ... like that!"
"Like that. But it's over now."
"What was it?"
"I wanted to see you, Katie. I wanted to see you."
"Darling ... what have they done to you?"
"Nobody's done anything to me. I'm all right now. I'm all right. Because I came here ... Katie, have you ever heard of Hopton Stoddard?"
"Stoddard? ... I don't know. I've seen the name somewhere."
"Well, never mind, it doesn't matter. I was only thinking how strange it is. You see, Stoddard's an old bastard who just couldn't take his own rottenness any more, so to make up for it he built a big present to the city. But when I ... when I couldn't take any more, I felt that the only way I could make up for it was by doing the thing I really wanted to do most — by coming here."
"When you couldn't take — what, Peter?"
"I've done something very dirty, Katie. I'll tell you about it some day, but not now ... Look will you say that you forgive me — without asking what it is? I'll think ... I'll think that I've been forgiven by someone who can never forgive me. Someone who can't be hurt and so can't forgive — but that makes it worse for me."
She did not seem perplexed. She said earnestly:
"I forgive you, Peter."
He nodded his head slowly several times and said:
"Thank you."
Then she pressed her head to his and she whispered:
"You've gone through hell, haven't you?"
"Yes. But it's all right now."
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Then he did not think of the Stoddard Temple any longer, and she did not think of good and evil. They did not need to; they felt too clean.
"Katie, why haven't we married?"
"I don't know," she said. And added hastily, saying it only because her heart was pounding, because she could not remain silent and because she felt called upon not to take advantage of him: "I guess it's because we knew we don't have to hurry,"
"But we do. If we're not too late already."
"Peter, you ... you're not proposing to me again?"
"Don't look stunned, Katie. If you do, I'll know that you've doubted it all these years. And I couldn't stand to think that just now. That's what I came here to tell you tonight. We're going to get married. We're going to get married right away."
"Yes, Peter."
"We don't need announcements, dates, preparations, guests, any of it. We've let one of those things or another stop us every time. I honestly don't know just how it happened that we've let it all drift like that ... We won't say anything to anyone. We'll just slip out of town and get married. We'll announce and explain afterward, if anyone wants explanations. And that means your uncle, and my mother, and everybody."
"Yes, Peter."
"Quit your damn job tomorrow. I'll make arrangements at the office to take a month off. Guy will be sore as hell — I'll enjoy that. Get your things ready — you won't need much — don't bother about the makeup, by the way — did you say you looked terrible tonight? — you've never looked lovelier. I'll be here at nine o'clock in the morning, day after tomorrow. You must be ready to start then."
"Yes, Peter."
After he had gone, she lay on her bed, sobbing aloud, without restraint, without dignity, without a care in the world.
Ellsworth Toohey had left the door of his study open. He had seen Keating pass by the door without noticing it and go out. Then he heard the sound of Catherine's sobs. He walked to her room and entered without knocking. He asked:
"What's the matter, my dear? Has Peter done something to hurt you?"
She half lifted herself on the bed, she looked at him, throwing her hair back off her face, sobbing exultantly. She said without thinking the first thing she felt like saying. She said something which she did not understand, but he did: "I'm not afraid of you, Uncle Ellsworth!"
14.
"WHO?" gasped Keating.
"Miss Dominique Francon," the maid repeated.
"You're drunk, you damn fool!"
"Mr. Keating! ... "
He was on his feet, he shoved her out of the way, he flew into the living room, and saw Dominique Francon standing there, in his apartment.
"Hello, Peter."
"Dominique! ... Dominique, how come?" In his anger, apprehension, curiosity and flattered pleasure, his first conscious thought was gratitude to God that his mother was not at home.
"I phoned your office. They said you had gone home."
"I'm so delighted, so pleasantly sur ... Oh, hell, Dominique, what's the use? I always try to be correct with you and you always see through it so well that it's perfectly pointless. So I won't play the poised host. You know that I'm knocked silly and that your coming here isn't natural and anything I say will probably be wrong."
"Yes, that's better, Peter."
He noticed that he still held a key in his hand and he slipped it into his pocket; he had been packing a suitcase for his wedding trip of tomorrow. He glanced at the room and noted angrily how vulgar his Victorian furniture looked beside the elegance of Dominique's figure. She wore a gray suit, a black fur jacket with a collar raised to her cheeks, and a hat slanting down. She did not look as she had looked on the witness stand, nor as he remembered her at dinner parties. He thought suddenly of that moment, years ago, when he stood on the stair landing outside Guy Francon's office and wished never to see Dominique again. She was what she had been then: a stranger who frightened him by the crystal emptiness of her face.
"Well, sit down, Dominique. Take your coat off."
"No, I shan't stay long. Since we're not pretending anything today, shall I tell you what I came for — or do you want some polite conversation first?"
"No, I don't want polite conversation."
"All right. Will you marry me, Peter?"
He stood very still; then he sat down heavily — because he knew she meant it.
"If you want to marry me," she went on in the same precise, impersonal voice, "you must do it right now. My car is downstairs. We drive to Connecticut and we come back. It will take about three hours."