Thank you for your time. It's been pointless.

[Sir Arthur Conan Doyle has told Agatha Christie that he once suffered from writer's block and cured it by designing a golf course, and recommends that Agatha should do the same when she asks his advice because her readers are guessing the identity of the culprits in her books. She consults Sir Hugh Persimmion, an expert on golf course design] Agatha Christie:
I want to design a golf course. Sir Hugh Persimmion:
I see. Really? Agatha Christie:
Yes. Sir Hugh Persimmion:
Well, in that case, I'm afraid my answer's quite short. You can't. Agatha Christie:
Excuse me? Sir Hugh Persimmion:
[patronisingly]
There isn't a golf club I know that would commission a design from a woman. I understand there has been a trend of late for ladies to golf. But really, the sheer complexity of a designer's task is beyond the capabilities of a woman. No matter how capable that woman is. Agatha Christie:
[smiling ingratiatingly]
I see. I hadn't realised. But thinking about it, how could I have been so stupid? Imagine a woman being able to design the preamble to putting something small in a hole. A woman might just present the hole and have done. And where would be the fun in that? There'd be nothing to groom, for a start. [she stands up] Agatha Christie:
[still smiling sweetly]
Thank you for your time. It's been pointless. [Sir Hugh looks nonplussed as he realises that Agatha's charming "climbdown" and farewell were actually intended to be highly insulting - and highly suggestive as well]