Wynand said, smiling:
"I like to think that. That I own Monadnock and the Enright House and the Cord Building ... "
"And the Stoddard Temple," said Dominique.
She had listened to them. She felt numb. Wynand had never spoken like this to any guest in their house; Roark had never spoken like this to any client. She knew that the numbness would break into anger, denial, indignation later; now it was only a cutting sound in her voice, a sound to destroy what she had heard.
She thought that she succeeded. Wynand answered, the word dropping heavily:
"Yes."
"Forget the Stoddard Temple, Gail," said Roark. There was such a simple, careless gaiety in his voice that no solemn dispensation could have been more effective.
"Yes, Howard," said Wynand, smiling.
She saw Roark's eyes turned to her.
"I have not thanked you, Mrs. Wynand, for accepting me as your architect. I know that Mr. Wynand chose me and you could have refused my services. I wanted to tell you that I'm glad you didn't."
She thought, I believe it because none of this can be believed; I'll accept anything tonight; I'm looking at him.
She said, courteously indifferent: "Wouldn't it be a reflection on my judgment to suppose that I would wish to reject a house you had designed, Mr. Roark?" She thought that nothing she said aloud could matter tonight.
Wynand asked:
"Howard, that 'Yes' — once granted, can it be withdrawn?"
She wanted to laugh in incredulous anger. It was Wynand's voice that had asked this; it should have been hers. He must look at me when he answers, she thought; he must look at me.
"Never," Roark answered, looking at Wynand.
"There's so much nonsense about human inconstancy and the transience of all emotions," said Wynand. "I've always thought that a feeling which changes never existed in the first place. There are books I liked at the age of sixteen. I still like them."
The butler entered, carrying a tray of cocktails. Holding her glass, she watched Roark take his off the tray. She thought: At this moment the glass stem between his fingers feels just like the one between mine; we have this much in common ... Wynand stood, holding a glass, looking at Roark with a strange kind of incredulous wonder, not like a host, like an owner who cannot quite believe his ownership of his prize possession ... She thought: I'm not insane. I'm only hysterical, but it's quite all right, I'm saying something, I don't know what it is, but it must be all right, they are both listening and answering, Gail is smiling, I must be saying the proper things ...
Dinner was announced and she rose obediently; she led the way to the dining room, like a graceful animal given poise by conditioned reflexes. She sat at the head of the table, between the two men facing each other at her sides. She watched the silverware in Roark's fingers, the pieces of polished metal with the initials "D W." She thought: I have done this so many times — I am the gracious Mrs. Gail Wynand — there were Senators, judges, presidents of insurance companies, sitting at dinner in that place at my right — and this is what I was being trained for, this is why Gail has been rising through tortured years to the position of entertaining Senators and judges at dinner — for the purpose of reaching an evening when the guest facing him would be Howard Roark.
Wynand spoke about the newspaper business; he showed no reluctance to discuss it with Roark, and she pronounced a few sentences when it seemed necessary. Her voice had a luminous simplicity; she was being carried along, unresisting, any personal reaction would be superfluous, even pain or fear. She thought, if in the flow of conversation Wynand's next sentence should be: "You've slept with him," she would answer: "Yes, Gail, of course," just as simply. But Wynand seldom looked at her; when he did, she knew by his face that hers was normal.
Afterward, they were in the drawing room again, and she saw Roark standing at the window, against the lights of the city. She thought: Gail built this place as a token of his own victory — to have the city always before him — the city where he did run things at last. But this is what it had really been built for — to have Roark stand at that window — and I think Gail knows it tonight — Roark's body blocking miles out of that perspective, with only a few dots of fire and a few cubes of lighted glass left visible around the outline of his figure. He was smoking and she watched his cigarette moving slowly against the black sky, as he put it between his lips, then held it extended in his fingers, and she thought: they are only sparks from his cigarette, those points glittering in space behind him.
She said softly: "Gail always liked to look at the city at night. He was in love with skyscrapers."
Then she noticed she had used the past tense, and wondered why.
She did not remember what she said when they spoke about the new house. Wynand brought the drawings from his study, spread the plans on a table, and the three of them stood bent over the plans together. Roark's pencil moved, pointing, across the hard geometrical patterns of thin black lines on white sheets. She heard his voice, close to her, explaining. They did not speak of beauty and affirmation, but of closets, stairways, pantries, bathrooms. Roark asked her whether she found the arrangements convenient. She thought it was strange that they all spoke as if they really believed she would ever live in this house.
When Roark had gone, she heard Wynand asking her:
"What do you think of him?"
She felt something angry and dangerous, like a single, sudden twist within her, and she said, half in fear, half in deliberate invitation:
"Doesn't he remind you of Dwight Carson?"
"Oh, forget Dwight Carson!"
Wynand's voice, refusing earnestness, refusing guilt, had sounded exactly like the voice that had said: "Forget the Stoddard Temple."
The secretary in the reception room looked, startled, at the patrician gentleman whose face she had seen so often in the papers.
"Gail Wynand," he said, inclining his head in self-introduction. "I should like to see Mr. Roark. If he is not busy. Please do not disturb him if he is. I had no appointment."
She had never expected Wynand to come to an office unannounced and to ask admittance in that tone of grave deference.
She announced the visitor. Roark came out into the reception room, smiling, as if he found nothing unusual in this call.
"Hello, Gail. Come in."
"Hello, Howard."
He followed Roark to the office. Beyond the broad windows the darkness of late afternoon dissolved the city; it was snowing; black specks whirled furiously across the lights.
"I don't want to interrupt if you're busy, Howard. This is not important." He had not seen Roark for five days, since the dinner.
"I'm not busy. Take your coat off. Shall I have the drawings
brought in?"
"No. I don't want to talk about the house. Actually, I came without any reason at all. I was down at my office all day, got slightly sick of it, and felt like coming here. What are you grinning about?"
"Nothing. Only you said that it wasn't important."
Wynand looked at him, smiled and nodded.
He sat down on the edge of Roark's desk, with an ease which he had never felt in his own office, his hands in his pockets, one leg swinging.
"It's almost useless to talk to you, Howard. I always feel as if I were reading to you a carbon copy of myself and you've already seen the original. You seem to hear everything I say a minute in advance. We're unsynchronized."
"You call that unsynchronized?"
"All right. Too well synchronized." His eyes were moving slowly over the room. "If we own the things to which we say 'Yes,' then I own this office?"
"Then you own it."
"You know what I feel here? No, I won't say I feel at home — I don't think I've ever felt at home anywhere. And I won't say I feel as I did in the palaces I've visited or in the great European cathedrals. I feel as I did when I was still in Hell's Kitchen — in the best days I had there — there weren't many. But sometimes — when I sat like this — only it was some piece of broken wall by the wharf — and there were a lot of stars above and dump heaps around me and the river smelt of rotting shells ... Howard, when you look back, does it seem to you as if all your days had rolled forward evenly, like a sort of typing exercise, all alike? Or were there stops-points reached — and then the typing rolled on again?"