“You think so?” The accompanying smile was appreciative.
“I know so. It’s life we’re living, not fiction.”
“And when I do—pardon me—come out of it?” The questioner was still smiling.
“That’s what I was speculating on.” Again the impatient fingers tapped on the chair, and again halted at their own alarm. “You’ll either be a genius and blossom in a day, or be a dead failure and go to the devil by the shortest route.”
“You think there’s no possible middle trail?”
“Not for you. You’re not built that way.”
The prediction was spoken with finality—too 17 much finality to be taken humorously. Responsively, bit by bit, the smile left Armstrong’s face.
“I won’t attempt to answer that, Darley, or to defend myself. To come back to the point, you think I’m a fool not to accept Graham’s offer?”
As before, his companion shrugged unconsciously. That was all.
“Does it occur to you that I might possibly have a reason—one that, while it wouldn’t show up well under your tape line, to me seems adequate?”