"I'm glad you didn't say that you've always admired the work of Peter Keating."
"You didn't tell me how glad you were to join the distinguished list of Gail Wynand's mistresses."
"You may enjoy my admitting it, if you wish, but I think we'll get along very well together."
"Quite likely. At least, you've given me a new experience: to do what I've always done — but honestly. Shall I now begin to give you my orders? I won't pretend they're anything else."
"If you wish."
"You'll go with me for a two months' cruise on my yacht. We'll sail in ten days. When we come back, you'll be free to return to your husband — with the contract for Stoneridge."
"Very well."
"I should like to meet your husband. Will you both have dinner with me Monday night?"
"Yes, if you wish."
When she rose to leave, he asked:
"Shall I tell you the difference between you and your statue?"
"No."
"But I want to. It's startling to see the same elements used in two compositions with opposite themes. Everything about you in that statue is the theme of exaltation. But your own theme is suffering."
"Suffering? I'm not conscious of having shown that."
"You haven't. That's what I meant. No happy person can be quite so impervious to pain."
Wynand telephoned his art dealer and asked him to arrange a private showing of Steven Mallory's work. He refused to meet Mallory in person; he never met those whose work he liked. The art dealer executed the order in great haste. Wynand bought five of the pieces he saw — and paid more than the dealer had hoped to ask. "Mr. Mallory would like to know," said the dealer, "what brought him to your attention."
"I saw one of his works."
"Which one?"
"It doesn't matter."
Toohey had expected Wynand to call for him after the interview with Dominique. Wynand had not called. But a few days later, meeting Toohey by chance in the city room, Wynand asked aloud:
"Mr. Toohey, have so many people tried to kill you that you can't remember their names?"
Toohey smiled and said: "I'm sure quite so many would like to."
"You flatter your fellow men," said Wynand, walking away.
Peter Keating stared at the brilliant room of the restaurant. It was the most exclusive place in town, and the most expensive. Keating gloated, chewing the thought that he was here as the guest of Gail Wynand.
He tried not to stare at the gracious elegance of Wynand's figure across the table. He blessed Wynand for having chosen to give this dinner in a public place. People were gaping at Wynand — discreetly and with practiced camouflage, but gaping nevertheless — and their attention included the two guests at Wynand's table.
Dominique sat between the two men. She wore a white silk dress with long sleeves and a cowl neck, a nun's garment that acquired the startling effect of an evening gown only by being so flagrantly unsuited to that purpose. She wore no jewelry. Her gold hair looked like a hood. The dull white silk moved in angular planes with the movements of her body, revealing it in the manner of cold innocence, the body of a sacrificial object publicly offered, beyond the need of concealment or desire. Keating found it unattractive. He noticed that Wynand seemed to admire it.
Someone at a distant table stared in their direction insistently, someone tall and bulky. Then the big shape rose to its feet — and Keating recognized Ralston Holcombe hurrying toward them.
"Peter, my boy, so glad to see you," boomed Holcombe, shaking his hand, bowing to Dominique, conspicuously ignoring Wynand. "Where have you been hiding? Why don't we see you around any more?" They had had luncheon together three days ago.
Wynand had risen and stood leaning forward a little, courteously. Keating hesitated; then, with obvious reluctance, said:
"Mr. Wynand — Mr. Holcombe."
"Not Mr. Gail Wynand?" said Holcombe with splendid innocence.
"Mr. Holcombe, if you saw one of the cough-drop Smith brothers in real life, would you recognize him?" asked Wynand.
"Why — I guess so," said Holcombe, blinking.
"My face, Mr. Holcombe, is just as much of a public bromide."
Holcombe muttered a few benevolent generalities and escaped.
Wynand smiled affectionately. "You didn't have to be afraid of introducing Mr. Holcombe to me, Mr. Keating, even though he is an architect."
"Afraid, Mr. Wynand?"
"Unnecessarily, since it's all settled. Hasn't Mrs. Keating told you that Stoneridge is yours?"
"I ... no, she hasn't told me ... I didn't know ... " Wynand was smiling, but the smile remained fixed, and Keating felt compelled to go on talking until some sign stopped him. "I hadn't quite hoped ... not so soon ... of course, I thought this dinner might be a sign ... help you to decide ... " He blurted out involuntarily: "Do you always throw surprises like that — just like that?"
"Whenever I can," said Wynand gravely.
"I shall do my best to deserve this honor and live up to your expectations, Mr. Wynand."
"I have no doubt about that," said Wynand.
He had said little to Dominique tonight. His full attention seemed centered on Keating.
"The public has been kind to my past endeavors," said Keating, "but I shall make Stoneridge my best achievement."
"That is quite a promise, considering the distinguished list of your works."
"I had not hoped that my works were of sufficient importance to attract your attention, Mr. Wynand."
"But I know them quite well. The Cosmo-Slotnick Building, which is pure Michelangelo." Keating's face spread in incredulous pleasure; he knew that Wynand was a great authority on art and would not make such comparisons lightly. "The Prudential Bank Building, which is genuine Palladio. The Slottern Department Store, which is snitched Christopher Wren." Keating's face had changed. "Look what an illustrious company I get for the price of one. Isn't it quite a bargain?"
Keating smiled, his face tight, and said:
"I've heard about your brilliant sense of humor, Mr. Wynand."
"Have you heard about my descriptive style?"
"What do you mean?"
Wynand half turned in his chair and looked at Dominique, as if he were inspecting an inanimate object.
"Your wife has a lovely body, Mr. Keating. Her shoulders are too thin, but admirably in scale with the rest of her. Her legs are too long, but that gives her the elegance of line you'll find in a good yacht. Her breasts are beautiful, don't you think?"
"Architecture is a crude profession, Mr. Wynand," Keating tried to laugh. "It doesn't prepare one for the superior sort of sophistication."
"You don't understand me, Mr. Keating?"
"If I didn't know you were a perfect gentleman, I might misunderstand it, but you can't fool me."
"That is just what I am trying not to do."
"I appreciate compliments, Mr. Wynand, but I'm not conceited enough to think that we must talk about my wife."
"Why not, Mr. Keating? It is considered good form to talk of the things one has — or will have — in common."
"Mr. Wynand, I ... I don't understand."
"Shall I be more explicit?"
"No, I ... "
"No? Shall we drop the subject of Stoneridge?"
"Oh, let's talk about Stoneridge! I ... "
"But we are, Mr. Keating."
Keating looked at the room about them. He thought that things like this could not be done in such a place; the fastidious magnificence made it monstrous; he wished it were a dank cellar. He thought: blood on paving stones — all right, but not blood on a drawing-room rug ...