Free Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand Page A

empty of expression. Rearden had always wondered, since she seemed amused so often, why there was no gaiety in her face.
    “We have met before, dear,” she said, in answer to his silent scrutiny, “though you don’t seem to be sure of it.”
    “Have you had any dinner, Henry?” his mother asked; there was a reproachful impatience in her voice, as if his hunger were a personal insult to her.
    “Yes . . . No ... I wasn’t hungry.”
    “I’d better ring to have them—”
    “No, Mother, not now, it doesn’t matter.”
    “That’s the trouble I’ve always had with you.” She was not looking at him, but reciting words into space. “It’s no use trying to do things for you, you don’t appreciate it. I could never make you eat properly.”
    “Henry, you work too hard,” said Philip. “It’s not good for you.”
    Rearden laughed. “I like it.”
    “That’s what you tell yourself. It’s a form of neurosis, you know. When a man drowns himself in work, it’s because he’s trying to escape from something. You ought to have a hobby.”
    “Oh, Phil, for Christ’s sake!” he said, and regretted the irritation in his voice.
    Philip had always been in precarious health, though doctors had found no specific defect in his loose, gangling body. He was thirty-eight, but his chronic weariness made people think at times that he was older than his brother.
    “You ought to learn to have some fun,” said Philip. “Otherwise, you’ll become dull and narrow. Single-tracked, you know. You ought to get out of your little private shell and take a look at the world. You don’t want to miss life, the way you’re doing.”
    Fighting anger, Rearden told himself that this was Philip’s form of solicitude. He told himself that it would be unjust to feel resentment: they were all trying to show their concern for him—and he wished these were not the things they had chosen for concern.
    “I had a pretty good time today, Phil,” he answered, smiling—and wondered why Philip did not ask him what it was.
    He wished one of them would ask him. He was finding it hard to concentrate. The sight of the running metal was still burned into his mind, filling his consciousness, leaving no room for anything else.
    “You might have apologized, only I ought to know better than to expect it.” It was his mother’s voice; he turned: she was looking at him with that injured look which proclaims the long-bearing patience of the defenseless.
    “Mrs. Beecham was here for dinner,” she said reproachfully.
    “What?”
    “Mrs. Beecham. My friend Mrs. Beecham.”
    “Yes?”
    “I told you about her, I told you many times, but you never remember anything I say. Mrs. Beecham was so anxious to meet you, but she had to leave after dinner, she couldn’t wait, Mrs. Beecham is a very busy person. She wanted so much to tell you about the wonderful work we’re doing in our parish school, and about the classes in metal craftsmanship, and about the beautiful wrought-iron doorknobs that the little slum children are making all by themselves.”
    It took the whole of his sense of consideration to force himself to answer evenly, “I’m sorry if I disappointed you, Mother.”
    “You’re not sorry. You could’ve been here if you’d made the effort. But when did you ever make an effort for anybody but yourself? You’re not interested in any of us or in anything we do. You think that if you pay the bills, that’s enough, don’t you? Money! That’s all you know. And all you give us is money. Have you ever given us any time?”
    If this meant that she missed him, he thought, then it meant affection, and if it meant affection, then he was unjust to experience a heavy, murky feeling which kept him silent lest his voice betray that the feeling was disgust.
    “You don’t care,” her voice went half-spitting, half-begging on. “Lillian needed you today for a very important problem, but I told her it was no use waiting to discuss it with