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- Стр. 1110/1581
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Richard
Halley
stopped
playing
,
turned
away
from
the
piano
and
glanced
at
Dagny
,
He
saw
her
drop
her
face
with
the
involuntary
movement
of
hiding
too
strong
an
emotion
,
he
rose
,
smiled
and
said
softly
,
"
Thank
you
.
"
"
Oh
no
.
.
.
"
she
whispered
,
knowing
that
the
gratitude
was
hers
and
that
it
was
futile
to
express
it
.
She
was
thinking
of
the
years
when
the
works
he
had
just
played
for
her
were
being
written
,
here
,
in
his
small
cottage
on
a
ledge
of
the
valley
,
when
all
this
prodigal
magnificence
of
sound
was
being
shaped
by
him
as
a
flowing
monument
to
a
concept
which
equates
the
sense
of
life
with
the
sense
of
beauty
—
while
she
had
walked
through
the
streets
of
New
York
in
a
hopeless
quest
for
some
form
of
enjoyment
,
with
the
screeches
of
a
modern
symphony
running
after
her
,
as
if
spit
by
the
infected
throat
of
a
loud
-
speaker
coughing
its
malicious
hatred
of
existence
.
"
But
I
mean
it
,
"
said
Richard
Halley
,
smiling
.
"
I
’
m
a
businessman
and
I
never
do
anything
without
payment
.
You
’
ve
paid
me
.
Do
you
see
why
I
wanted
to
play
for
you
tonight
?
"
She
raised
her
head
.
He
stood
in
the
middle
of
his
living
room
,
they
were
alone
,
with
the
window
open
to
the
summer
night
,
to
the
dark
trees
on
a
long
sweep
of
ledges
descending
toward
the
glitter
of
the
valley
’
s
distant
lights
.
"
Miss
Taggart
,
how
many
people
are
there
to
whom
my
work
means
as
much
as
it
does
to
you
?
"
"
Not
many
,
"
she
answered
simply
,
neither
as
boast
nor
flattery
,
but
as
an
impersonal
tribute
to
the
exacting
values
involved
.
"
That
is
the
payment
I
demand
.
Not
many
can
afford
it
.
I
don
’
t
mean
your
enjoyment
,
I
don
’
t
mean
your
emotion
—
emotions
be
damned
!
—
I
mean
your
understanding
and
the
fact
that
your
enjoyment
was
of
the
same
nature
as
mine
,
that
it
came
from
the
same
source
:
from
your
intelligence
,
from
the
conscious
judgment
of
a
mind
able
to
judge
my
work
by
the
standard
of
the
same
values
that
went
to
write
it
—
I
mean
,
not
the
fact
that
you
felt
,
but
that
you
felt
what
I
wished
you
to
feel
,
not
the
fact
that
you
admire
my
work
,
but
that
you
admire
it
for
the
things
I
wished
to
be
admired
.
"
He
chuckled
.
"
There
’
s
only
one
passion
in
most
artists
more
violent
than
their
desire
for
admiration
:
their
fear
of
identifying
the
nature
of
such
admiration
as
they
do
receive
.
But
it
’
s
a
fear
I
’
ve
never
shared
.
I
do
not
fool
myself
about
my
work
or
the
response
I
seek
—
I
value
both
too
highly
.
I
do
not
care
to
be
admired
causelessly
,
emotionally
,
intuitively
,
instinctively
—
or
blindly
,
I
do
not
care
for
blindness
in
any
form
,
I
have
too
much
to
show
—
or
for
deafness
,
I
have
too
much
to
say
.
I
do
not
care
to
be
admired
by
anyone
’
s
heart
—
only
by
someone
’
s
head
.
And
when
I
find
a
customer
with
that
invaluable
capacity
,
then
my
performance
is
a
mutual
trade
to
mutual
profit
.
An
artist
is
a
trader
,
Miss
Taggart
,
the
hardest
and
most
exacting
of
all
traders
.
Now
do
you
understand
me
?
"
