“Did she send you?”
“No. She doesn’t know I’m in London. I came to you first because I thought your point of view might be helpful when I come to tackle her. I’ve got nothing to go upon except her letter to Mary, which wasn’t particularly illuminating.”
“It wouldn’t be. It’s just funny to her—just funny, do you hear? I’ve implored her, on my knees I’ve begged her just to help me to understand her, to give me some clue as to what it is that she really wants, to keep us from going to smash, and she just sat and listened to me with that slow grin of hers. . . . I frightened her, I think, the last time, and the grin faded from her face, but she became as hard as a stone. . . . She didn’t care. She didn’t care. And I think she wanted to break me. . . . She hasn’t done it. Do you hear? She hasn’t done it!”
“Did you weep?”
“I . . . I broke down.”
“Ah! Not a good way of convincing her of your capacity to give her what she wants.”
Basil strode angrily about the studio, waving his arms and shouting.
“It’s not a bit of good. It’s done now. . . . It’s all over. It’s finished.”
“It won’t be finished until you’ve done thinking about it. There doesn’t seem to be much prospect of that.”