on her emotions. It was almost as if he had directed every word at her and had carved each word into her brain with hammer and chisel. The man, as a writer, took perverse pleasure in punching holes in illusions, he seemed to have pity for no one, there was humor in his tragedy and cynicism in his love and he attacked his characters as a surgeon would with a scalpel. But he did breathe amazing life into his people and made them walk and talk as human beings rather than as carefully polished fictional characters.
Irene could understand why he was not popular, but she also realized, as did Nicky, that it would take very little to make him famous. The slightest injection of sympathy into the book she had read and it would have been a great work of art. It seemed to her, from what she had read, that he had been on the verge of sympathy a number of times, but had deliberately forced himself to write away from it. Obviously he regarded any trace of sympathy as weakness. Perhaps if he changed his attitude . . .
After breakfast she went into the study, where a pile of papers had been stacked for her to sign. Inasmuch as she owned three-quarters of the Tinsley-Wilson financial empire, she had certain duties that could not be relegated to anyone else. She had faith and confidence in Frank and allowed him to run the business without interference from her, and she had also given him power of attorney in some of her affairs, but some decisions she had to make herself. Saturday mornings were put aside for such matters.
She was about halfway through the papers when the butler came into the study and waited quietly at her elbow. She affixed her signature to a paper, put it aside and looked up. “Yes, Carl?”
His expression was bland as he said, “The gentleman would like to look through your scrapbook.”
There was no need to ask which scrapbook he meant. It was lying before her on the desk. It was always on the desk and had been there for ten years, another form of torture in which she indulged herself. It was there for anyone to read, but she was reluctant to let Morgan O’Keefe look through it.
She put her reluctance away and nodded toward the scrapbook. “Very well. Take it to him. How is he feeling, by the way?”
“Much improved, ma’am. He says he slept well last night, and he had an excellent breakfast this morning. Shall I inform him that you think he is well enough to leave this afternoon, or perhaps this evening?”
Irene turned and stared sharply at the butler. He had never before been anxious to get rid of one of their patients. Carl not only liked helping others, but his wages were also doubled when the apartment was occupied.
“Why?” she asked.
“I guess you haven’t seen this morning’s paper, ma’am.”
He took the San Francisco Examiner from under his arm, folded it over to Herb Caen’s column and placed it on the desk. He pointed about halfway down the column and Irene read the item, “Morgan O’Keefe, erudite but little-understood author, is currently the house guest of Mrs. Got-Rocks herself, Irene Tinsley-Wilson. Seeing as how the fabulous heiress is the very soul of charity and whereas O’Keefe is a man of exotic and numerous hates, we wonder what cooks on the front burners.”
Irene was furious, but she restrained her anger. She tapped a pencil against her teeth and thought it over, then said, “Say nothing to him now. I shall tell him myself, but later.”
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