Scarret had been surprised that Toohey should invite him to lunch, but the news he heard wiped out the surprise in a greater and more painful one.
"I'm fond of Dominique," said Scarret, pushing his plate aside, his appetite gone. "I've always been very fond of her. But to have her as Mrs. Gail Wynand!"
"These, exactly, are my own sentiments," said Toohey.
"I've always advised him to marry. It helps. Lends an air. An insurance of respectability, sort of, and he could do with one. He's always skated on pretty thin ice. Got away with it, so far. But Dominique!"
"Why do you find such a marriage unsuitable?"
"Well ... well, it's not ... Damn it, you know it's not right!"
"I know it. Do you?"
"Look, she's a dangerous kind of woman."
"She is. That's your minor premise. Your major premise, however, is: he's a dangerous kind of man."
"Well ... in some ways ... yes."
"My esteemed editor, you understand me quite well. But there are times when it's helpful to formulate things. It tends toward future-co-operation. You and I have a great deal in common-though you have been somewhat reluctant to admit it. We are two variations on the same theme, shall we say? Or we play two ends against the same middle, if you prefer your own literary style. But our dear boss is quite another tune. A different leitmotif entirely-don't you think so, Alvah? Our dear boss is an accident in our midst. Accidents are unreliable phenomena. You've been sitting on the edge of your seat for years-haven't you?-watching Mr. Gail Wynand. So you know exactly what I'm talking about. You know also that Miss Dominique Francon is not our tune either. And you do not wish to see that particular influence enter the life of our boss. Do I have to state the issue any plainer?"
"You're a smart man, Ellsworth," said Scarret heavily.
"That's been obvious for years."
"I'll talk to him. You'd better not-he hates your guts, if you'll excuse me. But I don't think I'd do much good either. Not if he's made up his mind."
"I don't expect you to. You may try, if you wish, though it's useless. We can't stop that marriage. One of my good points is the fact that I admit defeat when it has to be admitted."
"But then, why did you — "
"Tell you this? In the nature of a scoop, Alvah. Advance information."
"I appreciate it, Ellsworth. I sure do."
"It would be wise to go on appreciating it. The Wynand papers, Alvah, are not to be given up easily. In unity there is strength. Your style."
"What do you mean?"
"Only that we're in for a difficult time, my friend. So we'd do better to stick together."
"Why, I'm with you, Ellsworth. I've always been."
"Inaccurate, but we'll let it pass. We're concerned only with the present. And the future. As a token of mutual understanding, how about getting rid of Jimmy Kearns at the first opportunity?"
"I thought you've been driving at that for months! What's the matter with Jimmy Kearns? He's a bright kid. The best drama critic in town. He's got a mind. Smart as a whip. Most promising."
"He's got a mind — of his own. I don't think you want any whips around the place — except the one you hold. I think you want to be careful about what the promise promises."
"Whom'll I stick in his spot?"
"Jules Fougler."
"Oh, hell, Ellsworth!"
"Why not?"
"That old son of a ... We can't afford him."
"You can if you want to. And look at the name he's got."
"But he's the most impossible old ... "
"Well, you don't have to take him. We'll discuss it some other time. Just get rid of Jimmy Kearns."
"Look, Ellsworth, I don't play favorites; it's all the same to me. I'll give Jimmy the boot if you say so. Only I don't see what difference it makes and what it's got to do with what we were talking about."
"You don't," said Toohey. "You will."
"Gail, you know that I want you to be happy," said Alvah Scarret, sitting in a comfortable armchair in the study of Wynand's penthouse that evening. "You know that. I'm thinking of nothing else."
Wynand lay stretched out on a couch, one leg bent, with the foot resting on the knee of the other. He smoked and listened silently.
"I've known Dominique for years," said Scarret. "Long before you ever heard of her. I love her. I love her, you might say, like a father. But you've got to admit that she's not the kind of woman your public would expect to see as Mrs. Gail Wynand."
Wynand said nothing.
"Your wife is a public figure, Gail. Just automatically. A public property. Your readers have a right to demand and expect certain things of her. A symbol value, if you know what I mean. Like the Queen of England, sort of. How do you expect Dominique to live up to that? How do you expect her to preserve any appearances at all? She's the wildest person I know. She has a terrible reputation. But worst of all — think Gail! — a divorcee! And here we spend tons of good print, standing for the sanctity of the home and the purity of womanhood! How are you going to make your public swallow that one? How am I going to sell your wife to them?"
"Don't you think this conversation had better be stopped, Alvah?"
"Yes, Gail," said Scarret meekly.
Scarret waited, with a heavy sense of aftermath, as if after a violent quarrel, anxious to make up.
"I know, Gail!" he cried happily. "I know what we can do. We'll put Dominique back on the paper and we'll have her write a column — a different one — a syndicated column on the home. You know, household hints, kitchen, babies and all that. It'll take the curse off. Show what a good little homebody she really is, her youthful mistakes notwithstanding. Make the women forgive her. We'll have a special department — 'Mrs. Gail Wynand's recipes.' A few pictures of her will help — you know, gingham dresses and aprons and her hair done up in a more conventional way."
"Shut up, Alvah, before I slap your face," said Wynand without raising his voice.
"Yes, Gail."
Scarret made a move to get up.
"Sit still. I haven't finished."
Scarret waited obediently.
"Tomorrow morning," said Wynand, "you will send a memo to every one of our papers. You will tell them to look through their files and find any pictures of Dominique Francon they might have in connection with her old column. You will tell them to destroy the pictures. You will tell them that henceforward any mention of her name or the use of her picture in any of my papers will cost the job of the entire editorial staff responsible. When the proper time comes, you will have an announcement of my marriage appear in all our papers. That cannot be avoided. The briefest announcement you can compose. No commentaries. No stories. No pictures. Pass the word around and make sure it's understood. It's any man's job, yours included, if this is disobeyed."
"No stories — when you marry her?"
"No stories, Alvah."
"But good God! That's news! The other papers ... "
"I don't care what the other papers do about it."
"But — why, Gail?"
"You wouldn't understand."
Dominique sat at the window, listening to the train wheels under the floor. She looked at the countryside of Ohio flying past in the fading daylight. Her head lay back against the seat and her hands lay limply at each side of her on the seat cushion. She was one with the structure of the car, she was carried forward just as the window frame, the floor, the walls of the compartment were carried forward. The corners blurred, gathering darkness; the window remained luminous, evening light rising from the earth. She let herself rest in that faint illumination; it entered the car and ruled it, so long as she did not turn on the light to shut it out.
She had no consciousness of purpose. There was no goal to this journey, only the journey itself, only the motion and the metal sound of motion around her. She felt slack and empty, losing her identity in a painless ebb, content to vanish and let nothing remain defined save that particular earth in the window.