The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand Read Free Book Online Page B

know whether I’m as good as they all tell me I am. I wouldn’t admit that to anyone but you. I think it’s because you’re always so sure that I ...”
    “Petey!” Mrs. Keating’s voice exploded behind them. “Petey, sweetheart! What are you doing there?”
    She stood in the doorway, in her best dress of burgundy taffeta, happy and angry.
    “And here I’ve been sitting all alone, waiting for you! What on earth are you doing on those filthy steps in your dress suit? Get up this minute! Come on in the house, boys. I’ve got hot chocolate and cookies ready for you.”
    “But, Mother, I wanted to speak to Howard about something important,” said Keating. But he rose to his feet.
    She seemed not to have heard. She walked into the house. Keating followed.
    Roark looked after them, shrugged, rose and went in also.
    Mrs. Keating settled down in an armchair, her stiff skirt crackling.
    “Well?” she asked. “What were you two discussing out there?”
    Keating fingered an ash tray, picked up a matchbox and dropped it, then, ignoring her, turned to Roark.
    “Look, Howard, drop the pose,” he said, his voice high. “Shall I junk the scholarship and go to work, or let Francon wait and grab the Beaux-Arts to impress the yokels? What do you think?”
    Something was gone. The one moment was lost.
    “Now, Petey, let me get this straight ...” began Mrs. Keating.
    “Oh, wait a minute, Mother! ... Howard, I’ve got to weigh it carefully. It isn’t everyone who can get a scholarship like that. You’re pretty good when you rate that. A course at the Beaux Arts—you know how important that is.”
    “I don’t,” said Roark.
    “Oh, hell, I know your crazy ideas, but I’m speaking practically, for a man in my position. Ideals aside for a moment, it certainly is ...”
    “You don’t want my advice,” said Roark.
    “Of course I do! I’m asking you!”
    But Keating could never be the same when he had an audience, any audience. Something was gone. He did not know it, but he felt that Roark knew; Roark’s eyes made him uncomfortable and that made him angry.
    “I want to practice architecture,” snapped Keating, “not talk about it! Gives you a great prestige—the old Ecole. Puts you above the rank and file of the ex-plumbers who think they can build. On the other hand, an opening with Francon—Guy Francon himself offering it!”
    Roark turned away.
    “How many boys will match that?” Keating went on blindly. “A year from now they’ll be boasting they’re working for Smith or Jones if they find work at all. While I’ll be with Francon & Heyer!”
    “You’re quite right, Peter,” said Mrs. Keating, rising. “On a question like that you don’t want to consult your mother. It’s too important. I’ll leave you to settle it with Mr. Roark.”
    He looked at his mother. He did not want to hear what she thought of this; he knew that his only chance to decide was to make the decision before he heard her; she had stopped, looking at him, ready to turn and leave the room; he knew it was not a pose—she would leave if he wished it; he wanted her to go; he wanted it desperately. He said:
    “Why, Mother, how can you say that? Of course I want your opinion. What ... what do you think?”
    She ignored the raw irritation in his voice. She smiled.
    “Petey, I never think anything. It’s up to you. It’s always been up to you.”
    “Well ...” he began hesitantly, watching her, “if I go to the Beaux-Arts ...”
    “Fine,” said Mrs. Keating, “go to the Beaux-Arts. It’s a grand place. A whole ocean away from your home. Of course, if you go, Mr. Francon will take somebody else. People will talk about that. Everybody knows that Mr. Francon picks out the best boy from Stanton every year for his office. I wonder how it’ll look if some other boy gets the job? But I guess that doesn’t matter.”
    “What ... what will people say?”
    “Nothing much, I guess. Only that the other boy was the best man of his