"Mr. Taggart, is it true, what they said about you in the paper?"
"What did they say?"
"About your secret."
"What secret?"
"Well, they said that when everybody was fighting about your bridge, whether it would stand or not, you didn't argue with them, you just went ahead, because you knew it would stand, when nobody else was sure of it—so the Line was a Taggart project and you were the guiding spirit behind the scenes, but you kept it secret, because you didn't care whether you got credit for it or not."
He had seen the mimeographed release of his Public Relations Department. "Yes," he said, "it's true." The way she looked at him made him feel as if it were.
"It was wonderful of you, Mr. Taggart."
"Do you always remember what you read in the newspapers, so well, in such detail?"
"Why, yes, I guess so—all the interesting things. The big things. I like to read about them. Nothing big ever happens to me."
She said it gaily, without self-pity. There was a young, determined brusqueness in her voice and movements. She had a head of reddish brown curls, wide-set eyes, a few freckles on the bridge of an upturned nose. He thought that one would call her face attractive if one ever noticed it, but there was no particular reason to notice it. It was a common little face, except for a look of alertness, of eager interest, a look that expected the world to contain an exciting secret behind every corner.
"Mr. Taggart, how does it feel to be a great man?"
"How does it feel to be a little girl?"
She laughed. "Why, wonderful."
"Then you're better off than I am."
"Oh, how can you say such a—"
"Maybe you're lucky if you don't have anything to do with the big events in the newspapers. Big. What do you call big, anyway?"
"Why . . . important."
"What's important?"
"You're the one who ought to tell me that, Mr. Taggart."
"Nothing's important."
She looked at him incredulously. "You, of all people, saying that tonight of all nights!"
"1 don't feel wonderful at all, if that's what you want to know. I've never felt less wonderful in my life."
He was astonished to see her studying his face with a look of concern such as no one had ever granted him. "You're worn out, Mr. Taggart," she said earnestly. "Tell them to go to hell."
"Whom?"
"Whoever's getting you down. It isn't right,"
"What isn't?"
"That you should feel this way. You've had a tough time, but you've licked them all, so you ought to enjoy yourself now. You've earned it."
"And how do you propose that I enjoy myself?"
"Oh, I don't know. But I thought you'd be having a celebration tonight, a party with all the big shots, and champagne, and things given to you, like keys to cities, a real swank party like that—instead of walking around all by yourself, shopping for paper handkerchiefs, of all fool things!"
"You give me those handkerchiefs, before you forget them altogether," he said, handing her a dime. "And as to the swank party, did it occur to you that I might not want to see anybody tonight?"
She considered it earnestly. "No," she said, "I hadn't thought of it.
But I can see why you wouldn't."
"Why?" It was a question to which he bad no answer.
"Nobody's really good enough for you, Mr. Taggart," she answered very simply, not as flattery, but as a matter of fact.
"Is that what you think?"
"I don't think I like people very much, Mr. Taggart. Not most of them."
"I don't either. Not any of them."
"I thought a man like you—you wouldn't know how mean they can be and how they try to step on you and ride on your back, if you let them. I thought the big men in the world could get away from them and not have to be flea-bait all of the time, but maybe I was wrong."
"What do you mean, flea-bait?"
"Oh, it's just something I tell myself when things get tough—that I've got to beat my way out to where I won't feel like I'm flea-bitten all the time by all kinds of lousiness—but maybe it's the same anywhere, only the fleas get bigger."
"Much bigger."
She remained silent, as if considering something. "It's funny," she said sadly to some thought of her own.
"What's funny?"
"I read a book once where it said that great men are always unhappy, and the greater—the unhappier. It didn't make sense to me. But maybe it's true."
"It's much truer than you think."
She looked away, her face disturbed.
"Why do you worry so much about the great men?" he asked. "What are you, a hero worshipper of some kind?"
She turned to look at him and he saw the light of an inner smile, while her face remained solemnly grave; it was the most eloquently personal glance he had ever seen directed at himself, while she answered in a quiet, impersonal voice, "Mr. Taggart, what else is there to look up to?"
A screeching sound, neither quite bell nor buzzer, rang out suddenly and went on ringing with nerve-grating insistence.
She jerked her head, as if awakening at the scream of an alarm clock, then sighed. "That's closing time, Mr. Taggart," she said regretfully.
"Go get your hat—I'll wait for you outside," he said.
