Perhaps that was the point. To spell it out. To have him say it. Maybe then he'll see how utterly ludicrous it sounds, coming from him. Oh, this is not the first offer of patronage she's had. A little girl like her, in charge of a place like this? Of course they've tried to roll her over. But of course they've never been successful.
Ever wonder why, Elliot?
"You're the way to the top," she says, in an almost disbelieving tone. "You. Little Smelliot Brown, who used to pick his nose at pie-making contests. You, who obviously can't get laid unless you play like you're a toff at the teahouse. You aren't the first idiot to ask me this sort of shit, Brown. I expect it from the stuffed-shirts uptown; I don't expect it from someone like you. Someone who knows just how hard it can be." Her eyes are flint; she stands abruptly, and motions for the girl to come over and clear the tray. "I'm not a madam. It doesn't work that way. My girls can say no. Is that it? You afraid of being rejected even by teahouse girls? Feel you gotta take it out, wave it around to feel like you're a man? Lord it over honest businesspeople that you got power? Pathetic. G'wan. Get the hell out of here."