The Non-commercial

           Reardenpressedhisforeheadtothemirrorandtriednottothink.

           Thatwastheonlywayhecouldgothroughwithit,hetoldhimself.Heconcentratedonthereliefofthemirror’scoolingtouch,wonderinghowonewentaboutforcingone’smindintoblankness,particularlyafteralifetimelivedontheaxiomthattheconstant,clearest,mostruthlessfunctionofhisrationalfacultywashisforemostduty.Hewonderedwhynoefforthadeverseemedbeyondhiscapacity,yetnowhecouldnotscrapeupthestrengthtostickafewblackpearlstudsintohisstarchedwhiteshirtfront.

           Thiswashisweddinganniversaryandhehadknownforthreemonthsthatthepartywouldtakeplacetonight,asLillianwished.Hehadpromisedittoher,safeintheknowledgethatthepartywasalongwayoffandthathewouldattendtoit,whenthetimecame,asheattendedtoeverydutyonhisoverloadedschedule.Then,duringthreemonthsofeighteen-hourworkdays,hehadforgottenithappily—untilhalfanhourago,when,longpastdinnertime,hissecretaryhadenteredhisofficeandsaidfirmly,"Yourparty,Mr.Rearden."Hehadcried,"GoodGod!"leapingtohisfeet;hehadhurriedhome,rushedupthestairs,startedtearinghisclothesoffandgonethroughtheroutineofdressing,consciousonlyoftheneedtohurry,notofthepurpose.Whenthefullrealizationofthepurposestruckhimlikeasuddenblow,hestopped.

           "Youdon’tcareforanythingbutbusiness."Hehadhearditallhislife,pronouncedasaverdictofdamnation.