apartment. He had slammed his door and slumped down on the davenport, with patches of spilled champagne still soaking the cloth of his trousers, as if his own discomfort were a revenge upon his wife and upon a universe that would not provide him with the celebration he had wanted.
After a while, he leaped to his feet, tore off his coat and threw it across the room. He reached for a cigarette, but snapped it in half and flung it at a painting over the fireplace.
He noticed a vase of Venetian glass—a museum piece, centuries old, with an intricate system of blue and gold arteries twisting through its transparent body. He seized it and flung it at the wall; it burst into a rain of glass as thin as a shattered light bulb.
He had bought that vase for the satisfaction of thinking of all the connoisseurs who could not afford it. Now he experienced the satisfaction of a revenge upon the centuries which had prized it—and the satisfaction of thinking that there were millions of desperate families, any one of whom could have lived for a year on the price of that vase.
He kicked off his shoes, and fell back on the davenport, letting his stocking feet dangle in mid-air.
The sound of the doorbell startled him: it seemed to match his mood.
It was the kind of brusque, demanding, impatient snap of sound he would have produced if he were now jabbing his finger at someone’s doorbell.
He listened to the butler’s steps, promising himself the pleasure of refusing admittance to whoever was seeking it. In a moment, he heard the knock at his door and the butler entered to announce, “Mrs.
Rearden to see you, sir.”
“What?... Oh... Well! Have her come in!”
He swung his feet down to the floor, but made no other concession, and waited with half a smile of alerted curiosity, choosing not to rise until a moment after Lillian had entered the room.
She wore a wine-colored dinner gown, an imitation of an Empire traveling suit, with a miniature double- breasted jacket gripping her high waistline over the long sweep of the skirt, and a small hat clinging to one ear, with a feather sweeping down to curl under her chin. She entered with a brusque, unrhythmical motion, the train of her dress and the feather of her hat swirling, then flapping against her legs and throat, like pennants signaling nervousness.
“Lillian, my dear, am I to be flattered, delighted or just plain flabbergasted?”
“Oh, don’t make a fuss about it! I had to see you, and it had to be immediately, that’s all.”
The impatient tone, the peremptory movement with which she sat down were a confession of weakness: by the rules of their unwritten language, one did not assume a demanding manner unless one were seeking a favor and had no value—no threat—to barter.
“Why didn’t you stay at the Gonzales reception?” she asked, her casual smile failing to hide the tone of irritation. “I dropped in on them after dinner, just to catch hold of you—but they said you hadn’t been feeling well and had gone home.”
He crossed the room and picked up a cigarette, for the pleasure of padding in his stocking feet past the formal elegance of her costume.
“I was bored,” he answered.
“I can’t stand them,” she said, with a little shudder; he glanced at her in astonishment: the words sounded involuntary and sincere. “I can’t stand Senor Gonzales and that whore he’s got himself for a wife.
It’s disgusting that they’ve become so fashionable, they and their parties. I don’t feel like going anywhere any longer. It’s not the same style any more, not the same spirit. I haven’t run into Balph Eubank for months, or Dr. Pritchett, or any of the boys. And all those new faces that look like butcher’s assistants! After all, our crowd were gentlemen.”
“Yeah,” he said reflectively. “Yeah, there’s some funny kind of difference. It’s like on the railroad, too: I could get along with Gem Weatherby, he was civilized, but Cuffy Meigs—that’s something else again, that’s...” He stopped abruptly.
“It’s perfectly preposterous,” she said, in the tone of a challenge to the space at large. “They can’t get away with it.”
She did not explain “who” or “with what.” He knew what she meant. Through a moment of silence, they looked as if they were clinging to each other for reassurance.
In the next moment, he was thinking with pleasurable amusement that Lillian was beginning to show her age. The deep burgundy color of her gown was unbecoming, it seemed to draw a purplish tinge out of her skin, a tinge that gathered, like twilight, in the small gullies of her face, softening her flesh to a texture of tired slackness, changing her look of bright mockery into a look of stale malice.
He saw her studying him, smiling and saying crisply, with the smile as license for insult.
“You are unwell, aren’t you, Jim? You look like a disorganized stable boy.”
He chuckled. “I can afford it.”
“I know it, darling. You’re one of the most powerful men in New York City.” She added, “It’s a good joke on New York City.”
“It is.”
“I concede that you’re in a position to do anything. That’s why I had to see you.” She added a small, grunt like sound of amusement, to dilute her statement’s frankness.
“Good,” he said, his voice comfortable and noncommittal.
“I had to come here, because I thought it best, in this particular matter, not to be seen together in public.”
“That is always wise.”
“I seem to remember having been useful to you in the past.”
“In the past—yes.”
“I am sure that I can count on you.”
“Of course—only isn’t that an old-fashioned, unphilosophical remark? How can we ever be sure of anything?”
“Jim,” she snapped suddenly, “you’ve got to help me!”
“My dear, I’m at your disposal, I’d do anything to help you,” he answered, the rules of their language requiring that any open statement be answered by a blatant lie. Lillian was slipping, he thought—and he experienced the pleasure of dealing with an inadequate adversary.
She was neglecting, he noted, even the perfection of her particular trademark: her grooming. A few strands were escaping from the drilled waves of her hair—her nails, matching her gown, were the deep shade of coagulated blood, which made it easy to notice the chipped polish at their tips—and against the broad, smooth, creamy expanse of her skin in the low, square cut of her gown, he observed the tiny glitter of a safety pin holding the strap of her slip.
“You’ve got to prevent it!” she said, in the belligerent tone of a plea disguised as a command. “You’ve got to stop it!”
“Really? What?”
“My divorce.”
“Oh... !” His features dropped into sudden earnestness.
“You know that he’s going to divorce me, don’t you?”
“I’ve heard some rumors about it.”
“It’s set for next month. And when I say set, that’s just what I mean.
Oh, it’s cost him plenty—but he’s bought the judge, the clerks, the bailiffs, their backers, their backers’ backers, a few legislators, half a dozen administrators—he’s bought the whole legal process, like a private thoroughfare, and there’s no single crossroad left for me to squeeze through to stop it!”
“I see.”
“You know, of course, what made him start divorce proceedings?”
“I can guess.”
“And I did it as a favor to you!” Her voice was growing anxiously shrill. “I told you about your sister in order to let you get that Gift Certificate for your friends, which—”
“I swear I don’t know who let it out!” he cried hastily. “Only a very few at the top knew that you’d been our informer, and I’m sure nobody would dare mention—”
