Francon's voice cut itself off.
"Mr. Francon, please let me design it the way the Dana Building was designed."
"Huh?"
"Let me do it. Not copy the Dana Building, but design it as Henry Cameron would have wanted it done, as I will."
"You mean modernistic?"
"I ... well, call it that."
"Are you crazy?"
"Mr. Francon, please listen to me." Roark's words were like the steps of a man walking a tightwire, slow, strained, groping for the only right spot, quivering over an abyss, but precise. "I don't blame you for the things you're doing. I'm Working for you, I'm taking your money, I have no right to express objections. But this time ... this time the client is asking for it. You're risking nothing. He wants it. Think of it, there's a man, one man who sees and understands and wants it and has the power to build it. Are you going to fight a client for the first time in your life — and fight for what? To cheat him and to give him the same old trash, when you have so many others asking for it, and one, only one, who comes with a request like this?"
"Aren't you forgetting yourself?" asked Francon, coldly. "What difference would it make to you? Just let me do it my way and show it to him. Only show it to him. He's already turned down three sketches, what if he turns down a fourth? But if he doesn't ... if he doesn't ... " Roark had never known how to entreat and he was not doing it well; his voice was hard, toneless, revealing the effort, so that the plea became an insult to the man who was making him plead. Keating would have given a great deal to see Roark in that moment. But Francon could not appreciate the triumph he was the first ever to achieve; he recognized only the insult.
"Am I correct in gathering," Francon asked, "that you are criticizing me and teaching me something about architecture?"
"I'm begging you," said Roark, closing his eyes. "If you weren't a protégé of Mr. Keating's, I wouldn't bother to discuss the matter with you any further. But since you are quite obviously naive and inexperienced, I shall point out to you that I am not in the habit of asking for the esthetic opinions of my draftsmen. You will kindly take this photograph — and I do not wish any building as Cameron might have designed it, I wish the scheme of this adapted to our site — and you will follow my instructions as to the Classic treatment of the facade."
"I can't do it," said Roark, very quietly. "What? Are you speaking to me? Are you actually saying: 'Sorry, I can't do it'?"
"I haven't said 'sorry,' Mr. Francon."
"What did you say?"
"That I can't do it."
"Why?"
"You don't want to know why. Don't ask me to do any designing. I'll do any other kind of job you wish. But not that. And not to Cameron's work."
"What do you mean, no designing? You expect to be an architect some day — or do you?"
"Not like this."
"Oh ... I see ... So you can't do it? You mean you won't?"
"If you prefer."
"Listen, you impertinent fool, this is incredible!" Roark got up. "May I go, Mr. Francon?"
"In all my life," roared Francon, "in all my experience, I've never seen anything like it! Are you here to tell me what you'll do and what you won't do? Are you here to give me lessons and criticize my taste and pass judgment?"
"I'm not criticizing anything," said Roark quietly. "I'm not passing judgment. There are some things that I can't do. Let it go at that. May I leave now?"
"You may leave this room and this firm now and from now on! You may go straight to the devil! Go and find yourself another employer! Try and find him! Go get your check and get out!"
"Yes, Mr. Francon."
That evening Roark walked to the basement speak-easy where he could always find Mike after the day's work. Mike was now employed on the construction of a factory by the same contractor who was awarded most of Francon's biggest jobs. Mike had expected to see Roark on an inspection visit to the factory that afternoon, and greeted him angrily:
"What's the matter, Red? Lying down on the job?"
When he heard the news, Mike sat still and looked like a bulldog baring its teeth. Then he swore savagely.
"The bastards," he gulped between stronger names, "the bastards ... "
"Keep still, Mike."
"Well ... what now, Red?"
"Someone else of the same kind, until the same thing happens again."
When Keating returned from Washington he went straight up to Francon's office. He had not stopped in the drafting room and had heard no news. Francon greeted him expansively:
"Boy, it's great to see you back! What'll you have? A whisky-and-soda or a little brandy?"
"No, thanks. Just give me a cigarette."
"Here ... Boy, you look fine! Better than ever. How do you do it, you lucky bastard? I have so many things to tell you! How did it go down in Washington? Everything all right?" And before Keating could answer, Francon rushed on: "Something dreadful's happened to me. Most disappointing. Do you remember Lili Landau? I thought I was all set with her, but last time I saw her, did I get the cold shoulder! Do you know who's got her? You'll be surprised. Gail Wynand, no less! The girl's flying high. You should see her pictures and her legs all over his newspapers. Will it help her show or won't it! What can I offer against that? And do you know what he's done? Remember how she always said that nobody could give her what she wanted most — her childhood home, the dear little Austrian village where she was born? Well, Wynand bought it, long ago, the whole damn village, and had it shipped here — every bit of it! — and had it assembled again down on the Hudson, and there it stands now, cobbles, church, apple trees, pigsties and all! Then he springs it on Lili, two weeks ago. Wouldn't you just know it? If the King of Babylon could get hanging gardens for his homesick lady, why not Gail Wynand? Lili's all smiles and gratitude — but the poor girl was really miserable. She'd have much preferred a mink coat. She never wanted the damn village. And Wynand knew it, too. But there it stands, on the Hudson. Last week, he gave a party for her, right there, in that village — a costume party, with Mr. Wynand dressed as Cesare Borgia — wouldn't he, though? — and what a party! — if you can believe what you hear, but you know how it is, you can never prove anything on Wynand. Then what does he do the next day but pose up there himself with little schoolchildren who'd never seen an Austrian village — the philanthropist! — and plasters the photos all over his papers with plenty of sob stuff about educational values, and gets mush notes from women's clubs! I'd like to know what he'll do with the village when he gets rid of Lili! He will, you know, they never last long with him. Do you think I'll have a chance with her then?"
"Sure," said Keating. "Sure, you will. How's everything here in the office?"
"Oh, fine. Same as usual. Lucius had a cold and drank up all of my best Bas Armagnac. It's bad for his heart, and a hundred dollars a case! ... Besides, Lucius got himself caught in a nasty little mess. It's that phobia of his, his damn porcelain. Seems he went and bought a teapot from a fence. He knew it was stolen goods, too. Took me quite a bit of bother to save us from a scandal ... Oh, by the way, I fired that friend of yours, what's his name? — Roark."
"Oh," said Keating, and let a moment pass, then asked:
"Why?"
"The insolent bastard! Where did you ever pick him up?"
"What happened?"
"I thought I'd be nice to him, give him a real break. I asked him to make a sketch for the Farrell Building — you know, the one Brent finally managed to design and we got Farrell to accept, you know, the simplified Doric — and your friend just up and refused to do it. It seems he has ideals or something. So I showed him the gate ... What's the matter? What are you smiling at?"