Now he walked slowly, through the streets full of rain that would not come. He looked up and saw empty space where the towers of familiar buildings had been; it did not look like fog or clouds, but like a solid spread of gray sky that had worked a gigantic, soundless destruction. That sight of buildings vanishing through the sky had always made him uneasy. He walked on, looking down.
It was the shoes that he noticed first. He knew that he must have seen the woman's face, that the instinct of self-preservation had jerked his glance away from it and let his conscious perception begin with the shoes. They were flat, brown oxfords, offensively competent, too well shined on the muddy pavement, contemptuous of rain and of beauty. His eyes went to the brown skirt, to the tailored jacket, costly and cold like a uniform, to the hand with a hole in the finger of an expensive glove, to the lapel that bore a preposterous ornament — a bow-legged Mexican with red-enameled pants — stuck there in a clumsy attempt at pertness; to the thin lips, to the glasses, to the eyes.
"Katie," he said.
She stood by the window of a bookstore; her glance hesitated halfway between recognition and a book title she had been examining; then, with recognition evident in the beginning of a smile, the glance went back to the book title, to finish and make an efficient note of it. Then her eyes returned to Keating. Her smile was pleasant; not as an effort over bitterness, and not as welcome; just pleasant.
"Why, Peter Keating," she said. "Hello, Peter."
"Katie ... " He could not extend his hand or move closer to her.
"Yes, imagine running into you like this, why, New York is just like any small town, though I suppose without the better features." There was no strain in her voice.
"What are you doing here? I thought ... I heard ... " He knew she had a good job in Washington and had moved there two years ago.
"Just a business trip. Have to dash right back tomorrow. Can't say that I mind it, either. New York seems so dead, so slow."
"Well, I'm glad you like your job ... if you mean ... isn't that what you mean?"
"Like my job? What a silly thing to say. Washington is the only grownup place in the country. I don't see how people can live anywhere else. What have you been doing, Peter? I saw your name in the paper the other day, it was something important."
"I ... I'm working ... You haven't changed much, Katie, not really, have you? — I mean, your face — you look like you used to — in a way ... "
"It's the only face I've got. Why do people always have to talk about changes if they haven't seen each other for a year or two? I ran into Grace Parker yesterday and she had to go into an inventory of my appearance. I could just hear every word before she said it — 'You look so nice — not a day older, really, Catherine.' People are provincial."
"But ... you do look nice ... It's ... it's nice to see you ... "
"I'm glad to see you, too. How is the building industry?"
"I don't know ... What you read about must have been Cortlandt ... I'm doing Cortlandt Homes, a housing ... "
"Yes, of course. That was it. I think it's very good for you, Peter. To do a job, not just for private profit and a fat fee, but with a social purpose. I think architects should stop money grubbing and give a little time to government work and broader objectives."
"Why, most of them would grab it if they could get it, it's one of the hardest rackets to break into, it's a closed ... "
"Yes, yes, I know. It's simply impossible to make the laymen understand our methods of working, and that's why all we hear are all those stupid, boring complaints. You mustn't read the Wynand papers, Peter."
"I never read the Wynand papers. What on earth has it got to do with ... Oh, I ... I don't know what we're talking about. Katie."
He thought that she owed him nothing, or every kind of anger and scorn she could command; and yet there was a human obligation she still had toward him: she owed him an evidence of strain in this meeting. There was none.
"We really should have a great deal to talk about, Peter." The words would have lifted him, had they not been pronounced so easily. "But we can't stand here all day." She glanced at her wrist watch. "I've got an hour or so, suppose you take me somewhere for a cup of tea, you could use some hot tea, you look frozen."
That was her first comment on his appearance; that, and a glance without reaction. He thought, even Roark had been shocked, had acknowledged the change.
"Yes, Katie. That will be wonderful. I ... " He wished she had not been the one to suggest it; it was the right thing for them to do; he wished she had not been able to think of the right thing; not so quickly. "Let's find a nice, quiet place ... "
"We'll go to Thorpe's. There's one around the corner. They have the nicest watercress sandwiches."
It was she who took his arm to cross the street, and dropped it again on the other side. The gesture had been automatic. She had not noticed it.
There was a counter of pastry and candy inside the door of Thorpe's. A large bowl of sugar-coated almonds, green and white, glared at Keating. The place smelled of orange icing. The lights were dim, a stuffy orange haze; the odor made the light seem sticky. The tables were too small, set close together.
He sat, looking down at a paper lace doily on a black glass table top. But when he lifted his eyes to Catherine, he knew that no caution was necessary: she did not react to his scrutiny; her expression remained the same, whether he studied her face or that of the woman at the next table; she seemed to have no consciousness of her own person.
It was her mouth that had changed most, he thought; the lips were drawn in, with only a pale edge of flesh left around the imperious line of their opening; a mouth to issue orders, he thought, but not big orders or cruel orders; just mean little ones — about plumbing and disinfectants. He saw the fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes — a skin like paper that had been crumpled and then smoothed out.
She was telling him about her work in Washington, and he listened bleakly. He did not hear the words, only the tone of her voice, dry and crackling.
A waitress in a starched orchid uniform came to take their orders. Catherine snapped:
"The tea sandwiches special. Please."
Keating said:
"A cup of coffee." He saw Catherine's eyes on him, and in a sudden panic of embarrassment, feeling he must not confess that he couldn't swallow a bite of food now, feeling that the confession would anger her, he added: "A ham and swiss on rye, I guess."
"Peter, what ghastly food habits! Wait a minute, waitress. You don't want that, Peter. It's very bad for you. You should have a fresh salad. And coffee is bad at this time of the day. Americans drink too much coffee."
"All right," said Keating.
"Tea and a combination salad, waitress ... And — oh, waitress! — no bread with the salad — you're gaining weight, Peter — some diet crackers. Please."
Keating waited until the orchid uniform had moved away, and then he said, hopefully:
"I have changed, haven't I, Katie? I do look pretty awful?" Even a disparaging comment would be a personal link.
"What? Oh, I guess so. It isn't healthy. But Americans know nothing whatever about the proper nutritional balance. Of course, men do make too much fuss over mere appearance. They're much vainer than women. It's really women who're taking charge, of all productive work now, and women will build a better world."
"How does one build a better world, Katie?"