Gerald slapped his thigh.
“Upon my word, ma’am, but that is a real clue! The storm gods did, in every mythology known to me, have red hair. I incline to believe that the wisdom of the Sphinx has solved the mystery of my being. I am no doubt a storm god also; I am rapidly becoming a complete pantheon upon two legs; and at this rate my waistcoat will end by embracing pure monotheism. Meanwhile I really do wonder, ma’am, at your offhand way of speaking about the gods, and I wonder, too, what grudge you can have against us gods?”
“For one thing, it is said that the gods created those men who interrupt me in my writing to plague me with just such silly questions.”
“Men naturally seek wisdom from you, ma’am, to whom the whole story of human life is familiar.”
“But the story of human life is not one story. There are three stories of human life.”
“Ah, ah! And what are they?”
“Why, there was once a traveling man who came one night to an inn—”
“I believe I have heard of his indecorous adventures there. So do you spare my blushes, ma’am, and tell me the second story!”
“It seems, then, there were once two Irishmen—”
“That anecdote also, in all conceivable variants, I am quite certain I have heard. So what is the third story?”