“And you haven’t cracked it.”
“Not entirely, but—”
“And you never will.”
It was time for her to start to rage, he thought; for her voice to rise to that screaming frenzy he had come to know so well. But it didn’t. The rage was there, but it was blanketed by an icy hardness as she went on.
“Another masterpiece you couldn’t write. If all the unfinished manuscripts of Arthur Conway were laid end to end, they’d make a good paper chase. And that’s all they are good for.”
“Okay.” With a faint hope that he might be able to make it, he started for the door.
“Wait a minute. I didn’t sit around here all afternoon just to get a glimpse of your lily-white face.”
Conway breathed more easily. This was not to be a tantrum: she had something to say. “Thank you, Mrs. Conway. Somehow I didn’t think you had.”
“And don’t call me by that name — it reminds me of you. I loathe you, I detest you, I despise you, and if you were worth it, I’d hate you.”
“Very nicely put. Sounds like something out of one of those unfinished manuscripts.”