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- Стр. 194/1581
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Rearden
pressed
his
forehead
to
the
mirror
and
tried
not
to
think
.
That
was
the
only
way
he
could
go
through
with
it
,
he
told
himself
.
He
concentrated
on
the
relief
of
the
mirror
’
s
cooling
touch
,
wondering
how
one
went
about
forcing
one
’
s
mind
into
blankness
,
particularly
after
a
lifetime
lived
on
the
axiom
that
the
constant
,
clearest
,
most
ruthless
function
of
his
rational
faculty
was
his
foremost
duty
.
He
wondered
why
no
effort
had
ever
seemed
beyond
his
capacity
,
yet
now
he
could
not
scrape
up
the
strength
to
stick
a
few
black
pearl
studs
into
his
starched
white
shirt
front
.
This
was
his
wedding
anniversary
and
he
had
known
for
three
months
that
the
party
would
take
place
tonight
,
as
Lillian
wished
.
He
had
promised
it
to
her
,
safe
in
the
knowledge
that
the
party
was
a
long
way
off
and
that
he
would
attend
to
it
,
when
the
time
came
,
as
he
attended
to
every
duty
on
his
overloaded
schedule
.
Then
,
during
three
months
of
eighteen
-
hour
workdays
,
he
had
forgotten
it
happily
—
until
half
an
hour
ago
,
when
,
long
past
dinner
time
,
his
secretary
had
entered
his
office
and
said
firmly
,
"
Your
party
,
Mr
.
Rearden
.
"
He
had
cried
,
"
Good
God
!
"
leaping
to
his
feet
;
he
had
hurried
home
,
rushed
up
the
stairs
,
started
tearing
his
clothes
off
and
gone
through
the
routine
of
dressing
,
conscious
only
of
the
need
to
hurry
,
not
of
the
purpose
.
When
the
full
realization
of
the
purpose
struck
him
like
a
sudden
blow
,
he
stopped
.
"
You
don
’
t
care
for
anything
but
business
.
"
He
had
heard
it
all
his
life
,
pronounced
as
a
verdict
of
damnation
.
He
had
always
known
that
business
was
regarded
as
some
sort
of
secret
,
shameful
cult
,
which
one
did
not
impose
on
innocent
laymen
,
that
people
thought
of
it
as
of
an
ugly
necessity
,
to
be
performed
but
never
mentioned
,
that
to
talk
shop
was
an
offense
against
higher
sensibilities
,
that
just
as
one
washed
machine
grease
off
one
’
s
hands
before
coming
home
,
so
one
was
supposed
to
wash
the
stain
of
business
off
one
’
s
mind
before
entering
a
drawing
room
.
He
had
never
held
that
creed
,
but
he
had
accepted
it
as
natural
that
his
family
should
hold
it
.
He
took
it
for
granted
—
wordlessly
,
in
the
manner
of
a
feeling
absorbed
in
childhood
,
left
unquestioned
and
unnamed
—
that
he
had
dedicated
himself
,
like
the
martyr
of
some
dark
religion
,
to
the
service
of
a
faith
which
was
his
passionate
love
,
but
which
made
him
an
outcast
among
men
,
whose
sympathy
he
was
not
to
expect
.
He
had
accepted
the
tenet
that
it
was
his
duty
to
give
his
wife
some
form
of
existence
unrelated
to
business
.
But
he
had
never
found
the
capacity
to
do
it
or
even
to
experience
a
sense
of
guilt
.
He
could
neither
force
himself
to
change
nor
blame
her
if
she
chose
to
condemn
him
.
He
had
given
Lillian
none
of
his
time
for
months
—
no
,
he
thought
,
for
years
;
for
the
eight
years
of
their
marriage
.
He
had
no
interest
to
spare
for
her
interests
,
not
even
enough
to
learn
just
what
they
were
.
She
had
a
large
circle
of
friends
,
and
he
had
heard
it
said
that
their
names
represented
the
heart
of
the
country
’
s
culture
,
but
he
had
never
had
time
to
meet
them
or
even
to
acknowledge
their
fame
by
knowing
what
achievements
had
earned
it
.
He
knew
only
that
he
often
saw
their
names
on
the
magazine
covers
on
newsstands
.
If
Lillian
resented
his
attitude
,
he
thought
,
she
was
right
.
If
her
manner
toward
him
was
objectionable
,
he
deserved
it
.
If
his
family
called
him
heartless
,
it
was
true
.
He
had
never
spared
himself
in
any
issue
.
When
a
problem
came
up
at
the
mills
,
his
first
concern
was
to
discover
what
error
he
had
made
;
he
did
not
search
for
anyone
’
s
fault
but
his
own
;
it
was
of
himself
that
he
demanded
perfection
.
He
would
grant
himself
no
mercy
now
;
he
took
the
blame
.
But
at
the
mills
,
it
prompted
him
to
action
in
an
immediate
impulse
to
correct
the
error
;
now
,
it
had
no
effect
.
.
.
.
Just
a
few
more
minutes
,
he
thought
,
standing
against
the
mirror
,
his
eyes
closed
.
He
could
not
stop
the
thing
in
his
mind
that
went
on
throwing
words
at
him
;
it
was
like
trying
to
plug
a
broken
hydrant
with
his
bare
hands
.
Stinging
jets
,
part
words
,
part
pictures
,
kept
shooting
at
his
brain
.
.
.
.
