"Good evening, Gail," Roark said calmly when he came in.
"I don't know what's a more conspicuous form of bad discipline," said Wynand, throwing his hat down on a table by the door, "to blurt things right out or to ignore them blatantly. I look like hell. Say it."
"You do look like hell. Sit down, rest and don't talk. Then I'll run you a hot bath — no, you don't look that dirty, but it will be good for you for a change. Then we'll talk."
Wynand shook his head and remained standing at the door.
"Howard, the Banner is not helping you. It's ruining you."
It had taken him eight weeks to prepare himself to say that.
"Of course," said Roark. "What of it?"
Wynand would not advance into the room.
"Gail, it doesn't matter, as far as I'm concerned. I'm not counting on public opinion, one way or the other."
"You want me to give in?"
"I want you to hold out if it takes everything you own."
He saw that Wynand understood, that it was the thing Wynand had tried not to face, and that Wynand wanted him to speak.
"I don't expect you to save me. I think I have a chance to win. The strike won't make it better or worse. Don't worry about me. And don't give in. If you stick to the end — you won't need me any longer."
He saw the look of anger, protest — and agreement. He added:
"You know what I'm saying. We'll be better friends than ever — and you'll come to visit me in jail, if necessary. Don't wince, and don't make me say too much. Not now. I'm glad of this strike. I knew that something like that had to happen, when I saw you for the first time. You knew it long before that."
"Two months ago, I promised you ... the one promise I wanted to keep ... "
"You're keeping it."
"Don't you really want to despise me? I wish you'd say it now. I came here to hear it."
"All right. Listen. You have been the one encounter in my life that can never be repeated. There was Henry Cameron who died for my own cause. And you're the publisher of filthy tabloids. But I couldn't say this to him, and I'm saying it to you. There's Steve Mallory who's never compromised with his soul. And you've done nothing but sell yours in every known way. But I couldn't say this to him and I'm saying it to you. Is that what you've always wanted to hear from me? But don't give in."
He turned away, and added: "That's all. We won't talk about your damn strike again. Sit down, I'll get you a drink. Rest, get yourself out of looking like hell."
Wynand returned to the Banner late at night. He took a cab. It did not matter. He did not notice the distance.
Dominique said, "You've seen Roark."
"Yes. How do you know?"
"Here's the Sunday makeup. It's fairly lousy, but it'll have to do. I sent Manning home for a few hours — he was going to collapse. Jackson quit, but we can do without him. Alvah's column was a mess — he can't even keep his grammar straight any more — I rewrote it, but don't tell him, tell him you did."
"Go to sleep. I'll take Manning's place. I'm good for hours."
They went on, and the days passed, and in the mailing room the piles of returns grew, running over into the corridor, white stacks of paper like marble slabs. Fewer copies of the Banner were run off with every edition, but the stacks kept growing. The days passed, days of heroic effort to put out a newspaper that came back unbought and unread.
16.
IN THE glass-smooth mahogany of the long table reserved for the board of directors there was a monogram in colored wood — G W — reproduced from his signature. It had always annoyed the directors. They had no time to notice it now. But an occasional glance fell upon it — and then it was a glance of pleasure.
The directors sat around the table. It was the first meeting in the board's history that had not been summoned by Wynand. But the meeting had convened and Wynand had come. The strike was in its second month.
Wynand stood by his chair at the head of the table. He looked like a drawing from a men's magazine, fastidiously groomed, a white handkerchief in the breast pocket of his dark suit. The directors caught themselves in peculiar thoughts: some thought of British tailors, others — of the House of Lords — of the Tower of London — of the executed English King — or was it a Chancellor? — who had died so well.
They did not want to look at the man before them. They leaned upon visions of the pickets outside — of the perfumed, manicured women who shrieked their support of Ellsworth Toohey in drawing-room discussions — of the broad, flat face of a girl who paced Fifth Avenue with a placard "We Don't Read Wynand" — for support and courage to say what they were saying.
Wynand thought of a crumbling wall on the edge of the Hudson. He heard steps approaching blocks away. Only this time there were no wires in his hand to hold his muscles ready.
"It's gone beyond all sense. Is this a business organization or a charitable society for the defense of personal friends?"
"Three hundred thousand dollars last week ... Never mind how I know it, Gail, no secret about it, your banker told me. All right, it's your money, but if you expect to get that back out of the sheet, let me tell you we're wise to your smart tricks. You're not going to saddle the corporation with that one, not a penny of it, you don't get away with it this time, it's too late, Gail, the day's past for your bright stunts."
Wynand looked at the fleshy lips of the man making sounds, and thought: You've run the Banner, from the beginning, you didn't know it, but I know, it was you, it was your paper, there's nothing to save now.
"Yes, Slottern and his bunch are willing to come back at once, all they ask is that we accept the Union's demands, and they'll pick up the balance of their contracts, on the old terms, even without waiting for you to rebuild circulation — which will be some job, friend, let me tell you — and I think that's pretty white of them. I spoke to Homer yesterday and he gave me his word — care to hear me name the sums involved, Wynand, or do you know it without my help?"
"No, Senator Eldridge wouldn't see you ... Aw, skip it, Gail, we know you flew to Washington last week. What you don't know is that Senator Eldridge is going around saying he wouldn't touch this with a ten-foot pole. And Boss Craig suddenly got called out to Florida, did he? — to sit up with a sick aunt? None of them will pull you out of this one, Gail. This isn't a road-paving deal or a little watered-stock scandal. And you ain't what you used to be."
Wynand thought: I never used to be, I've never been here, why are you afraid to look at me? Don't you know that I'm the least among you? The half-naked women in the Sunday supplement, the babies in the rotogravure section, the editorials on park squirrels, they were your souls given expression, the straight stuff of your souls — but where was mine?
"I'll be damned if I can see any sense to it. Now, if they were demanding a raise in wages, that I could understand, I'd say fight the bastards for all we're worth. But what's this — a God-damn intellectual issue of some kind? Are we losing our shirts for principles or something?"
"Don't you understand? The Banner's a church publication now. Mr. Gail Wynand, the evangelist. We're over a barrel, but we've got ideals."
"Now if it were a real issue, a political issue — but some fool dynamiter who's blown up some dump! Everybody's laughing at us. Honest, Wynand, I've tried to read your editorials and if you want my honest opinion, it's the lousiest stuff ever put in print. You'd think you were writing for college professors!"
Wynand thought: I know you — you're the one who'd give money to a pregnant slut, but not to a starving genius — I've seen your face before — I picked you and I brought you in — when in doubt about your work, remember that man's face, you're writing for him — but, Mr. Wynand, one can't remember his face — one can, child, one can, it will come back to remind you — it will come back and demand payment — and I'll pay — I signed a blank check long ago and now it's presented for collection — but a blank check is always made out to the sum of everything you've got.