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- Стр. 634/1581
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He
walked
on
,
not
waiting
to
see
the
look
in
her
eyes
—
a
look
that
held
anger
,
bewilderment
and
the
first
faint
gleam
of
a
question
mark
.
It
was
the
muscles
of
his
own
face
that
made
Rearden
realize
the
nature
of
his
reaction
to
Francisco
’
s
arrivaclass
=
"
underline
"
he
noticed
suddenly
that
he
was
smiling
and
that
his
face
had
been
relaxed
into
the
dim
well
being
of
a
smile
for
some
minutes
past
,
as
he
watched
Francisco
d
’
Anconia
in
the
crowd
.
He
acknowledged
to
himself
,
for
the
first
time
,
all
the
half
-
grasped
,
half
-
rejected
moments
when
he
had
thought
of
Francisco
d
’
Anconia
and
thrust
the
thought
aside
before
it
became
the
knowledge
of
how
much
he
wanted
to
see
him
again
.
In
moments
of
sudden
exhaustion
—
at
his
desk
,
with
the
fires
of
the
furnaces
going
down
in
the
twilight
—
in
the
darkness
of
the
lonely
walk
through
the
empty
countryside
to
his
house
—
in
the
silence
of
sleepless
nights
—
he
had
found
himself
thinking
of
the
only
man
who
had
once
seemed
to
be
his
spokesman
.
He
had
pushed
the
memory
aside
,
telling
himself
:
But
that
one
is
worse
than
all
the
others
!
—
while
feeling
certain
that
this
was
not
true
,
yet
being
unable
to
name
the
reason
of
his
certainty
.
He
had
caught
himself
glancing
through
the
newspapers
to
see
whether
Francisco
d
’
Anconia
had
returned
to
New
York
—
and
he
had
thrown
the
newspapers
aside
,
asking
himself
angrily
:
What
if
he
did
return
?
—
would
you
go
chasing
him
through
night
clubs
and
cocktail
parties
?
—
what
is
it
that
you
want
from
him
?
This
was
what
he
had
wanted
—
he
thought
,
when
he
caught
himself
smiling
at
the
sight
of
Francisco
in
the
crowd
—
this
strange
feeling
of
expectation
that
held
curiosity
,
amusement
and
hope
.
Francisco
did
not
seem
to
have
noticed
him
.
Rearden
waited
,
fighting
a
desire
to
approach
;
not
after
the
kind
of
conversation
we
had
,
he
thought
—
what
for
?
—
what
would
I
say
to
him
?
And
then
,
with
the
same
smiling
,
light
-
hearted
feeling
,
the
feeling
of
being
certain
that
it
was
right
,
he
found
himself
walking
across
the
ballroom
,
toward
the
group
that
surrounded
Francisco
d
’
Anconia
.
He
wondered
,
looking
at
them
,
why
these
people
were
drawn
to
Francisco
,
why
they
chose
to
hold
him
imprisoned
in
a
clinging
circle
when
their
resentment
of
him
was
obvious
under
their
smiles
.
Their
faces
had
the
hint
of
a
look
peculiar
,
not
to
fear
,
but
to
cowardice
:
a
look
of
guilty
anger
.
Francisco
stood
cornered
against
the
side
edge
of
a
marble
stairway
,
half
-
leaning
,
half
-
sitting
on
the
steps
;
the
informality
of
his
posture
,
combined
with
the
strict
formality
of
his
clothes
,
gave
him
an
air
of
superlative
elegance
.
His
was
the
only
face
that
had
the
carefree
look
and
the
brilliant
smile
proper
to
the
enjoyment
of
a
party
;
but
his
eyes
seemed
intentionally
expressionless
,
holding
no
trace
of
gaiety
,
showing
—
like
a
warning
signal
—
nothing
but
the
activity
of
a
heightened
perceptiveness
.
Standing
unnoticed
on
the
edge
of
the
group
,
Rearden
heard
a
woman
,
who
had
large
diamond
earrings
and
a
flabby
,
nervous
face
,
ask
tensely
,
"
Senior
d
’
Anconia
,
what
do
you
think
is
going
to
happen
to
the
world
?
"
"
Just
exactly
what
it
deserves
.
"
