"Are you, Ellsworth? I wonder what you are — essentially. I don't know."
"I dare say nobody does," he said pleasantly. "Although really, there's no mystery about it at all. It's very simple. All things are simple when you reduce them to fundamentals. You'd be surprised if you knew how few fundamentals there are. Only two, perhaps. To explain all of us. It's the untangling, the reducing that's difficult — that's why people don't like to bother. I don't think they'd like the results, either."
"I don't mind. I know what I am. Go ahead and say it. I'm just a bitch."
"Don't fool yourself, my dear. You're much worse than a bitch. You're a saint. Which shows why saints are dangerous and undesirable."
"And you?"
"As a matter of fact, I know exactly what I am. That alone can explain a great deal about me. I'm giving you a helpful hint — if you care to use it. You don't, of course. You might, though — in the future."
"Why should I?"
"You need me, Dominique. You might as well understand me a little. You see, I'm not afraid of being understood. Not by you."
"I need you?"
"Oh, come on, show a little courage, too."
She sat up and waited coldly, silently. He smiled, obviously with pleasure, making no effort to hide the pleasure.
"Let's see," he said, studying the ceiling with casual attention, "those commissions you got for Peter Keating. The Cryon office building was mere nuisance value — Howard Roark never had a chance at that. The Lindsay home was better — Roark was definitely considered, I think he would have got it but for you. The Stonebrook Clubhouse also — he had a chance at that, which you ruined." He looked at her and chuckled softly. "No comments on techniques and punches, Dominique?" The smile was like cold grease floating over the fluid sounds of his voice. "You slipped up on the Norris country house — he got that last week, you know. Well, you can't be a hundred per cent successful. After all, the Enright House is a big job; it's creating a lot of talk, and quite a few people are beginning to show interest in Mr. Howard Roark. But you've done remarkably well. My congratulations. Now don't you think I'm being nice to you? Every artist needs appreciation — and there's nobody to compliment you, since nobody knows what you're doing, but Roark and me, and he won't thank you. On second thought, I don't think Roark knows what you're doing, and that spoils the fun, doesn't it?"
She asked: "How do you know what I'm doing?" — her voice tired.
"My dear, surely you haven't forgotten that it was I who gave you the idea in the first place?"
"Oh, yes," she said absently. "Yes."
"And now you know why I came here. Now you know what I meant when I spoke about my side."
"Yes," she said. "Of course."
"This is a pact, my dear. An alliance. Allies never trust each other, but that doesn't spoil their effectiveness. Our motives might be quite opposite. In fact, they are. But it doesn't matter. The result will be the same. It is not necessary to have a noble aim in common. It is necessary only to have a common enemy. We have."
"Yes."
"That's why you need me. I've been helpful once."
"Yes."
"I can hurt your Mr. Roark much better than any tea party you'll ever give."
"What for?"
"Omit the what-fors. I don't inquire into yours."
"All right."
"Then it's to be understood between us? We're allies in this?"
She looked at him, she slouched forward, attentive, her face empty. Then she said: "We're allies."
"Fine, my dear. Now listen. Stop mentioning him in your column every other day or so. I know, you take vicious cracks at him each time, but it's too much. You're keeping his name in print, and you don't want to do that. Further, you'd better invite me to those parties of yours. There are things I can do which you can't. Another tip: Mr. Gilbert Colton — you know, the California pottery Coltons — is planning a branch factory in the east. He's thinking of a good modernist. In fact, he's thinking of Mr. Roark. Don't let Roark get it. It's a huge job — with lots of publicity. Go and invent a new tea sandwich for Mrs. Colton. Do anything you wish. But don't let Roark get it."
She got up, dragged her feet to a table, her arms swinging loosely, and took a cigarette. She lighted it, turned to him, and said indifferently: "You can talk very briefly and to the point — when you want to."
"When I find it necessary."
She stood at the window, looking out over the city. She said: "You've never actually done anything against Roark. I didn't know you cared quite so much."
"Oh, my dear. Haven't I"
"You've never mentioned him in print."
"That, my dear, is what I've done against Mr. Roark. So far."
"When did you first hear of him?"
"When I saw drawings of the Heller house. You didn't think I'd miss that, did you? And you?"
"When I saw drawings of the Enright House."
"Not before?"
"Not before."
She smoked in silence; then she said, without turning to him:
"Ellsworth, if one of us tried to repeat what we said here tonight, the other would deny it and it could never be proved. So it doesn't matter if we're sincere with each other, does it? It's quite safe. Why do you hate him?"
"I never said I hated him."
She shrugged.
"As for the rest," he added, "I think you can answer that yourself."
She nodded slowly to the bright little point of her cigarette's reflection on the glass plane.
He got up, walked over to her, and stood looking at the lights of the city below them, at the angular shapes of buildings, at the dark walls made translucent by the glow of the windows, as if the walls were only a checkered veil of thin black gauze over a solid mass of radiance. And Ellsworth Toohey said softly:
"Look at it. A sublime achievement, isn't it? A heroic achievement. Think of the thousands who worked to create this and of the millions who profit by it. And it is said that but for the spirit of a dozen men, here and there down the ages, but for a dozen men — less, perhaps — none of this would have been possible. And that might be true. If so, there are — again — two possible attitudes to take. We can say that these twelve were great benefactors, that we are all fed by the overflow of the magnificent wealth of their spirit, and that we are glad to accept it in gratitude and brotherhood. Or, we can say that by the splendor of their achievement which we can neither equal nor keep, these twelve have shown us what we are, that we do not want the free gifts of their grandeur, that a cave by an oozing swamp and a fire of sticks rubbed together are preferable to skyscrapers and neon lights — if the cave and the sticks are the limit of your own creative capacities. Of the two attitudes, Dominique, which would you call the truly humanitarian one? Because, you see, I'm a humanitarian."
After a while Dominique found it easier to associate with people. She learned to accept self-torture as an endurance test, urged on by the curiosity to discover how much she could endure. She moved through formal receptions, theater parties, dinners, dances — gracious and smiling, a smile that made her face brighter and colder, like the sun on a winter day. She listened emptily to empty words uttered as if the speaker would be insulted by any sign of enthusiastic interest from his listener, as if only boredom were the only bond possible between people, the only preservative of their precarious dignity. She nodded to everything and accepted everything.
"Yes, Mr. Holt, I think Peter Keating is the man of the century — our century."
"No, Mr. Inskip, not Howard Roark, you don't want Howard Roark ... A phony? Of course, he's a phony — it takes your sensitive honesty to evaluate the integrity of a man ... Nothing much? No, Mr. Inskip, of course, Howard Roark is nothing much. It's all a matter of size and distance — and distance ... No, I don't think very much, Mr. Inskip — I'm glad you like my eyes — yes, they always look like that when I'm enjoying myself — and it made me so happy to hear you say that Howard Roark is nothing much."