When the meeting ended, Toohey rushed over to her.
"Dominique, my dear!" he said brightly. "Shall I consider myself flattered?"
"If you wish."
"Had I known that you were interested, I would have sent you a very special invitation."
"But you didn't think I'd be interested?"
"No, frankly, I ... "
"That was a mistake, Ellsworth. You discounted my newspaperwoman's instinct. Never miss a scoop. It's not often that one has the chance to witness the birth of a felony."
"Just exactly what do you mean, Dominique?" asked Keating, his voice sharp.
She turned to him. "Hello, Peter."
"You know Peter Keating, of course?" Toohey smiled at her.
"Oh, yes. Peter was in love with me once."
"You're using the wrong tense, Dominique," said Keating.
"You must never take seriously anything Dominique chooses to say, Peter. She does not intend us to take it seriously. Would you like to join our little group, Dominique? Your professional qualifications make you eminently eligible."
"No, Ellsworth. I wouldn't like to join your little group. I really don't hate you enough to do that."
"Just why do you disapprove of it?" snapped Keating.
"Why, Peter!" she drawled. "Whatever gave you that idea? I don't disapprove of it at all. Do I, Ellsworth? I think it's a proper undertaking in answer to an obvious necessity. It's just what we all need — and deserve."
"Can we count on your presence at our next meeting?" Toohey asked. "It is pleasant to have so understanding a listener who will not be in the way at all — at our next meeting, I mean."
"No, Ellsworth. Thank you. It was merely curiosity. Though you do have an interesting group of people here. Young builders. By the way, why didn't you invite that man who designed the Enright House — what's his name? — Howard Roark?"
Keating felt his jaw snap tight. But she looked at them innocently, she had said it lightly, in the tone of a casual remark — surely, he thought, she did not mean ... what? he asked himself and added: she did not mean whatever it was he'd thought for a moment she meant, whatever had terrified him in that moment.
"I have never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Roark," Toohey answered gravely.
"Do you know him?" Keating asked her.
"No," she answered. "I've merely seen a sketch of the Enright House."
"And?" Keating insisted. "What do you think of it?"
"I don't think of it," she answered.
When she turned to leave, Keating accompanied her. He looked at her in the elevator, on their way down. He saw her hand, in a tight black glove, holding the flat corner of a pocket-book. The limp carelessness of her fingers was insolent and inviting at once. He felt himself surrendering to her again. "Dominique, why did you actually come here today?"
"Oh, I haven't been anywhere for a long time and I decided to start in with that. You know, when I go swimming I don't like to torture myself getting into cold water by degrees. I dive right in and it's a nasty shock, but after that the rest is not so hard to take."
"What do you mean? What do you really see that's so wrong with that meeting? After all, we're not planning to do anything definite. We don't have any actual program. I don't even know what we were there for."
"That's it, Peter. You don't even know what you were there for."
"It's only a group for fellows to get together. Mostly to talk. What harm is there in that?"
"Peter, I'm tired."
"Well, did your appearance tonight mean at least that you're coming out of your seclusion?"
"Yes. Just that ... My seclusion?"
"I've tried and tried to get in touch with you, you know."
"Have you?"
"Shall I begin to tell you how happy I am to see you again?"
"No. Let's consider that you've told me."
"You know, you've changed, Dominique. I don't know exactly in what way, but you've changed."
"Have I?"
"Let's consider that I've told you how lovely you are, because I can't find words to say it."
The streets were dark. He called a cab. Sitting close to her, he turned and looked at her directly, his glance compelling like an open hint, hoping to make the silence significant between them. She did not turn away. She sat studying his face. She seemed to be wondering, attentive to some thought of her own which he could not guess. He reached over slowly and took her hand. He felt an effort in her hand, he could feel through her rigid fingers the effort of her whole arm, not an effort to withdraw her hand, but to let him hold it. He raised the hand, turned it over and pressed his lips to her wrist.
Then he looked at her face. He dropped her hand and it remained suspended in the air for an instant, the fingers stiff, half closed. This was not the indifference he remembered. This was revulsion, so great that it became impersonal, it could not offend him, it seemed to include more than his person. He was suddenly aware of her body; not in desire or resentment, but just aware of its presence close to him, under her dress. He whispered involuntarily:
"Dominique, who was he?"
She whirled to face him. Then he saw her eyes narrowing. He saw her lips relaxing, growing fuller, softer, her mouth lengthening slowly into a faint smile, without opening. She answered, looking straight at him:
"A workman in the granite quarry."
She succeeded; he laughed aloud.
"Serves me right, Dominique. I shouldn't suspect the impossible."
"Peter, isn't it strange? It was you that I thought I could make myself want, at one time."
"Why is that strange?"
"Only in thinking how little we know about ourselves. Some day you'll know the truth about yourself too, Peter, and it will be worse for you than for most of us. But you don't have to think about it. It won't come for a long time."
"You did want me, Dominique?"
"I thought I could never want anything and you suited that so well."
"I don't know what you mean. I don't know what you ever think you're saying. I know that I'll always love you. And I won't let you disappear again. Now that you're back ... "
"Now that I'm back, Peter, I don't want to see you again. Oh, I'll have to see you when we run into each other, as we will, but don't call on me. Don't come to see me. I'm not trying to offend you, Peter. It's not that. You've done nothing to make me angry. It's something in myself that I don't want to face again. I'm sorry to choose you as the example. But you suit so well. You — Peter, you're everything I despise in the world and I don't want to remember how much I despise it. If I let myself remember — I'll return to it. This is not an insult to you, Peter. Try to understand that. You're not the worst of the world. You're its best. That's what's frightening. If I ever come back to you — don't let me come. I'm saying this now because I can, but if I come back to you, you won't be able to stop me, and now is the only time when I can warn you."
"I don't know," he said in cold fury, his lips stiff, "what you're talking about."