Free Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand Page B

you.”
    “Oh, Mother, it’s not important!” said Lillian. “Not to Henry.”
    He turne I to her. He stood in the middle of the room, with his trenchcoat still on, as if he were trapped in an unreality that would not become real to him.
    “It’s not important at all,” said Lillian gaily; he could not tell whether her voice was apologetic or boastful. “It’s not business. It’s purely non-commercial.”
    “What is it?”
    “Just a party I’m planning to give.”
    “A party?”
    “Oh, don’t look frightened, it’s not for tomorrow night. I know that you’re so very busy, but it’s for three months from now and I want it to be a very big, very special affair, so would you promise me to be here that night and not in Minnesota or Colorado or California?”
    She was looking at him in an odd manner, speaking too lightly and too purposefully at once, her smile overstressing an air of innocence and suggesting something like a hidden trump card.
    “Three months from now?” he said. “But you know that I can’t tell what urgent business might come up to call me out of town.”
    “Oh, I know! But couldn’t I make a formal appointment with you, way in advance, just like any railroad executive, automobile manufacturer or junk—I mean, scrap—dealer? They say you never miss an appointment. Of course, I’d let you pick the date to suit your convenience.” She was looking up at him, her glance acquiring some special quality of feminine appeal by being sent from under her lowered forehead up toward his full height; she asked, a little too casually and too cautiously, “The date I had in mind was December tenth, but would you prefer the ninth or the eleventh?”
    “It makes no difference to me.”
    She said gently, “December tenth is our wedding anniversary, Henry.”
    They were all watching his face; if they expected a look of guilt, what they saw, instead, was a faint smile of amusement. She could not have intended this as a trap, he thought, because he could escape it so easily, by refusing to accept any blame for his forgetfulness and by leaving her spurned; she knew that his feeling for her was her only weapon. Her motive, he thought, was a proudly indirect attempt to test his feeling and to confess her own. A party was not his form of celebration, but it was hers. It meant nothing in his terms; in hers, it meant the best tribute she could offer to him and to their marriage. He had to respect her intention, he thought, even if he did not share her standards, even if he did not know whether he still cared for any tribute from her. He had to let her win, he thought, because she had thrown herself upon his mercy.
    He smiled, an open, unresentful smile in acknowledgment of her victory. “All right, Lillian,” he said quietly, “I promise to be here on the night of December tenth.”
    “Thank you, dear.” Her smile had a closed, mysterious quality; he wondered why he had a moment’s impression that his attitude had disappointed them all.
    If she trusted him, he thought, if her feeling for him was still alive, then he would match her trust. He had to say it; words were a lens to focus one’s mind, and he could not use words for anything else tonight. “I’m sorry I’m late, Lillian, but today at the mills we poured the first heat of Rearden Metal.”
    There was a moment of silence. Then Philip said, “Well, that’s nice.”
    The others said nothing.
    He put his hand in his pocket. When he touched it, the reality of the bracelet swept out everything else; he felt as he had felt when the liquid metal had poured through space before him.
    “I brought you a present, Lillian.”
    He did not know that he stood straight and that the gesture of his arm was that of a returning crusader offering his trophy to his love, when he dropped a small chain of metal into her lap.
    Lillian Rearden picked it up, hooked on the tips of two straight fingers, and raised it to the light. The links were heavy, crudely made,