THE BULLETIN OF THE ARCHITECTS’ GUILD OF AMERICA CARRIED, IN its Miscellaneous Department, a short item announcing Henry Cameron’s retirement. Six lines summarized his achievements in architecture and misspelled the names of his two best buildings.

Peter Keating walked into Francon’s office and interrupted Francon’s well-bred bargaining with an antique dealer over a snuffbox that had belonged to Madame Pompadour. Francon was precipitated into paying nine dollars and twenty-five cents more than he had intended to pay. He turned to Keating testily, after the dealer had left, and asked:

“Well, what is it, Peter, what is it?”

Keating threw the bulletin down on Francon’s desk, his thumbnail underscoring the paragraph about Cameron.

“I’ve got to have that man,” said Keating.

“What man?”

“Howard Roark.”

“Who the hell,” asked Francon, “is Howard Roark?”

“I’ve told you about him. Cameron’s designer.”

“Oh ... oh, yes, I believe you did. Well, go and get him.”

“Do you give me a free hand on how I hire him?”

“What the hell? What is there about hiring another draftsman? Incidentally, did you have to interrupt me for that?”

“He might be difficult. And I want to get him before he decides on anyone else.”

“Really? He’s going to be difficult about it, is he? Do you intend to beg him to come here after Cameron’s? Which is not great recommendation for a young man anyway.”

“Come on, Guy. Isn’t it?”

“Oh well ... well, speaking structurally, not esthetically, Cameron does give them a thorough grounding and ... Of course, Cameron was pretty important in his day. As a matter of fact, I was one of his best draftsmen myself once, long ago. There’s something to be said for old Cameron when you need that sort of thing. Go ahead. Get your Roark if you think you need him.”

“It’s not that I really need him. But he’s an old friend of mine, and out of a job, and I thought it would be a nice thing to do for him.”

“Well, do anything you wish. Only don’t bother me about it.... Say, Peter, don’t you think this is as lovely a snuffbox as you’ve ever seen?”

That evening, Keating climbed, unannounced, to Roark’s room and knocked, nervously, and entered cheerfully. He found Roark sitting on the window sill, smoking.

“Just passing by,” said Keating, “with an evening to kill and happened to think that that’s where you live, Howard, and thought I’d drop in to say hello, haven’t seen you for such a long time.”

“I know what you want,” said Roark. “All right. How much?”

“What do you mean, Howard?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Sixty-five a week,” Keating blurted out. This was not the elaborate approach he had prepared, but he had not expected to find that no approach would be necessary. “Sixty-five to start with. If you think it’s not enough, I could maybe ...”

“Sixty-five will do.”

“You ... you’ll come with us, Howard?”

“When do you want me to start?”