Атлант расправил плечи
The Aristocracy of pull
Hehadpushedthememoryaside,tellinghimself:Butthatoneisworsethanalltheothers!—whilefeelingcertainthatthiswasnottrue,yetbeingunabletonamethereasonofhiscertainty.HehadcaughthimselfglancingthroughthenewspaperstoseewhetherFranciscod’AnconiahadreturnedtoNewYork—andhehadthrownthenewspapersaside,askinghimselfangrily:Whatifhedidreturn?—wouldyougochasinghimthroughnightclubsandcocktailparties?—whatisitthatyouwantfromhim?
Thiswaswhathehadwanted—hethought,whenhecaughthimselfsmilingatthesightofFranciscointhecrowd—thisstrangefeelingofexpectationthatheldcuriosity,amusementandhope.
Franciscodidnotseemtohavenoticedhim.Reardenwaited,fightingadesiretoapproach;notafterthekindofconversationwehad,hethought—whatfor?—whatwouldIsaytohim?Andthen,withthesamesmiling,light-heartedfeeling,thefeelingofbeingcertainthatitwasright,hefoundhimselfwalkingacrosstheballroom,towardthegroupthatsurroundedFranciscod’Anconia.
Hewondered,lookingatthem,whythesepeopleweredrawntoFrancisco,whytheychosetoholdhimimprisonedinaclingingcirclewhentheirresentmentofhimwasobviousundertheirsmiles.Theirfaceshadthehintofalookpeculiar,nottofear,buttocowardice:alookofguiltyanger.
