She would have told him what a transparent ruse that was-- if she could only figure out what he would gain from it-- or if she was simply so beneath his notice that it simply had come to mind. Her face showed mingled temptation and confusion and wariness; she was so absorbed in trying to guess his motives that there was some delay before she understood what he had said-- a metaphorical processing lag between hearing and comprehending.

"But-- if I were returned to my estate tomorrow, and continued to design until the day I died, with all the success and acclaim that could be wished; would any of that ease the last moments? Be consolation as I lost my faculties? In the universe, what is gained by a hundred years of enjoyment? Even my work-" she would not admit aloud that she was not the great innovator that Fastolfe was, except in one accidental way that she dared not repeat. Some pride choked down the admission of her own insignificance, even as she felt it.