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He
did
not
question
her
about
the
John
Galt
Line
and
she
did
not
speak
of
it
,
until
they
sat
at
a
table
in
a
dimly
lighted
booth
and
she
saw
the
stem
of
a
glass
between
her
fingers
.
She
had
barely
noticed
how
they
had
come
here
.
It
was
a
quiet
,
costly
place
that
looked
like
a
secret
retreat
;
she
saw
a
small
,
lustrous
table
under
her
hand
,
the
leather
of
a
circular
seat
behind
her
shoulders
,
and
a
niche
of
dark
blue
mirror
that
cut
them
off
from
the
sight
of
whatever
enjoyment
or
pain
others
had
come
here
to
hide
.
Francisco
was
leaning
against
the
table
,
watching
her
,
and
she
felt
as
if
she
were
leaning
against
the
steady
attentiveness
of
his
eyes
.
They
did
not
speak
of
the
Line
,
but
she
said
suddenly
,
looking
down
at
the
liquid
in
her
glass
:
"
I
’
m
thinking
of
the
night
when
Nat
Taggart
was
told
that
he
had
to
abandon
the
bridge
he
was
building
.
The
bridge
across
the
Mississippi
.
He
had
been
desperately
short
of
money
—
because
people
were
afraid
of
the
bridge
,
they
called
it
an
impractical
venture
.
That
morning
,
he
was
told
that
the
river
steamboat
concerns
had
filed
suit
against
him
,
demanding
that
his
bridge
be
destroyed
as
a
threat
to
the
public
welfare
.
There
were
three
spans
of
the
bridge
built
,
advancing
across
the
river
.
That
same
day
,
a
local
mob
attacked
the
structure
and
set
fire
to
the
wooden
scaffolding
.
His
workers
deserted
him
,
some
because
they
were
scared
,
some
because
they
were
bribed
by
the
steamboat
people
,
and
most
of
them
because
he
had
had
no
money
to
pay
them
for
weeks
.
Throughout
that
day
,
he
kept
receiving
word
that
men
who
had
subscribed
to
buy
the
stock
of
the
Taggart
Transcontinental
Railroad
were
cancelling
their
subscriptions
,
one
after
another
.
Toward
evening
,
a
committee
,
representing
two
banks
that
were
his
last
hope
of
support
,
came
to
see
him
.
It
was
right
there
,
on
the
construction
site
by
the
river
,
in
the
old
railway
coach
where
he
lived
,
with
the
door
open
to
the
view
of
the
blackened
ruin
,
with
the
wooden
remnants
still
smoking
over
the
twisted
steel
.
He
had
negotiated
a
loan
from
those
banks
,
but
the
contract
had
not
been
signed
.
The
committee
told
him
that
he
would
have
to
give
up
his
bridge
,
because
he
was
certain
to
lose
the
suit
,
and
the
bridge
would
be
ordered
torn
down
by
the
time
he
completed
it
.
If
he
was
willing
to
give
it
up
,
they
said
,
and
to
ferry
his
passengers
across
the
river
on
barges
,
as
other
railroads
were
doing
,
the
contract
would
stand
and
he
would
get
the
money
to
continue
his
line
west
on
the
other
shore
;
if
not
,
then
the
loan
was
off
.
What
was
his
answer
?
—
they
asked
.
He
did
not
say
a
word
,
he
picked
up
the
contract
,
tore
it
across
,
handed
it
to
them
and
walked
out
.
He
walked
to
the
bridge
,
along
the
spans
,
down
to
the
last
girder
.
He
knelt
,
he
picked
up
the
tools
his
men
had
left
and
he
started
to
clear
the
charred
wreckage
away
from
the
steel
structure
.
His
chief
engineer
saw
him
there
,
axe
in
hand
,
alone
over
the
wide
river
,
with
the
sun
setting
behind
him
in
that
west
where
his
line
was
to
go
.
He
worked
there
all
night
.
By
morning
,
he
had
thought
out
a
plan
of
what
he
would
do
to
find
the
right
men
,
the
men
of
independent
judgment
—
to
find
them
,
to
convince
them
,
to
raise
the
money
,
to
continue
the
bridge
.
"
She
spoke
in
a
low
,
flat
voice
,
looking
down
at
the
spot
of
light
that
shimmered
in
the
liquid
as
her
fingers
turned
the
stem
of
her
glass
once
in
a
while
.
She
showed
no
emotion
,
but
her
voice
had
the
intense
monotone
of
a
prayer
:
"
Francisco
.
.
.
if
he
could
live
through
that
night
,
what
right
have
I
to
complain
?
What
does
it
matter
,
how
I
feel
just
now
?
He
built
that
bridge
,
I
have
to
hold
it
for
him
.
I
can
’
t
let
it
go
the
way
of
the
bridge
of
the
Atlantic
Southern
.
I
feel
almost
as
if
he
’
d
know
it
,
if
I
let
that
happen
,
he
’
d
know
it
that
night
when
he
was
alone
over
the
river
.
.
.
no
,
that
’
s
nonsense
,
but
here
’
s
what
I
feeclass
=
"
underline
"
any
man
who
knows
what
Nat
Taggart
felt
that
night
,
any
man
living
now
and
capable
of
knowing
it
—
it
’
s
him
that
I
would
betray
if
I
let
it
happen
.
.
.
and
I
can
’
t
.
"
"
Dagny
,
if
Nat
Taggart
were
living
now
,
what
would
he
do
?
"
She
answered
involuntarily
,
with
a
swift
,
bitter
chuckle
,
"
He
wouldn
’
t
last
a
minute
!
"
—
then
corrected
herself
:
"
No
,
he
would
.
He
would
find
a
way
to
fight
them
.
"
"
How
?
"
"
I
don
’
t
know
.
"
